Gossamer Webs
by Qwara
Summary: P&P sequel. Catherine Bennet tries to unravel the mystery in which Mr. Darcy's cousin, Rosaline, is shrouded...unwittingly entangling her own emotions in a web of interrelated events.
1. Prologue

_Well, I've begun writing my latest fanfic. :-D I realize that the summary doesn't actually tell anything about the plot; but I wouldn't want to give that away now, would I? If you read _Amour Propre_ you won't be surprised that this prologue is a flashback. Prepare yourself for a lot of apparently disjointed scenes for the next few chapters—but trust me in that there is a method to my madness. Feedback, of course, is always appreciated. _

**Prologue**

_Pretty, pretty robin!_  
_Under leaves so green_  
_A happy blossom_  
_Hears you sobbing, sobbing,_  
_Pretty, pretty robin,_  
_Near my bosom._

—_W. Blake "Songs of Innocence"_

"Rosy! The carriage has been ordered, and we are leaving in five minutes! Are you ready?"

The fifteen-year-old Margaret's voice echoed through the empty hall, her stern and hollow tenor much more reminiscent of an elderly school mistress' than a blossoming young girl's. Margaret had her glossy raven locks hidden beneath the brim of her straw bonnet, and the billowy black cloak fastened round her neck rather made her look like a bat. She lifted her chin to the ceiling in the way saucy, self-important young ladies do when domineering over their inferior and younger siblings, her square jaw line and milky white complexion illuminated by the waxy candle she held in her hand. She tapped her foot impatiently on the cracked and gray stone floor as her sharp black eyes scanned over the hall, which was still empty save her own presence.

Rosaline lifted her skirts as she hastily descended the staircase, breathless from rushing about. Why oh why had she slept in an hour later than she had intended? Her rosy pink frock was wrinkled and its hem muddied from a long stroll across the park the week previous; but nine-year-olds hardly ever have an eye for such deficiencies of appearance. She heard remnants of her elder sister's voice as she called for her, and so she began to go at a slight jog, her flaxen curls brushing and bobbing about her flushed cheeks. She was rather frightened of Margaret, the memory of her once pulling the ribbons out of her hair quite violently when she had been late for her harp lesson fresh in her memory. She rounded the next corner, but nearly tripped over her own feet when she was suddenly arrested by the appearance of her younger brother.

"Richard!" she cried, not with the tone of disapproval which Margaret would have undoubtedly used, but with surprise and gentleness. "What are you doing here? Margaret will be very angry if you don't come quickly—why, you don't even have your boots on!"

"Oh, I'm not afraid of Margaret," replied the boy indignantly; "And Peter isn't either. I shall put my boots on when I like. I don't see why we're going all this way so early in the morning, and on such an ugly day, too."

As he completed his speech, a gesture towards the window proved his statement true. Though it was an early hour, the sky was dark with thick, black clouds, with heavy raindrops beating against the landscape. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Rosaline paused for a moment to pay respect to the tempest, but did not reply to what her brother had said; and instead took his little hand in hers and they began to go down the hall together. Soon the two siblings, breathless, had met with their elder sister, who immediately ceased her foot-tapping and began her scolding.

"Rosy, you are going to fret Mamma so! Look at how dirty you are—did you even bother to wash up this morning? Well, I suppose it can't be helped now. Get your bonnet on, and mind you wear the one that I just trimmed for you, and not that horrid one you are so fond of. Richard, why are you not waiting outside yet? I would have thought better of you than that—oh, get your boots and your coat on, quickly! Mamma, Papa and Peter are already waiting outside. They are going to be so angry with you if you do not make haste."

Rosaline silently acquiesced, tying on her bonnet once she had received a look of something like approval from her sister, though this look was mixed with displeasure and repugnance. Richard, however, was not as conditioned in his younger age, and was more obstinate by nature. He stamped his foot on the cold stone floor and cried, flailing his arms in the air:

"Why should we go out in all this stormy weather? There is no good reason why, and I refuse to go. Mamma may fret all she likes; but I shall not budge an inch. I will not put my boots or my coat on, because I do not choose to."

Margaret frowned her harsh, scowling frown, which contorted her entire face and thus accentuated her bat-like appearance. She forcefully grabbed her brother's thin arm and then, kneeling down slightly, angrily explained:

"We are going out because Aunt Anne is ill, and she may very well die. If you do not want to go, that is fine, but you shall be in this big house all by yourself, and then if Aunt Anne does die, you shall go to Hell for having not been there."

Richard grudgingly began to get his traveling things on, though he did not look intimidated in the least. Rosaline, on the other hand, was feeling all of the fear that she thought her brother ought to have felt; and with her head hung low, she wished that she had the courage to speak in Richard's defense: but she did not. Like a gossamer web, her will wavered in the slightest breeze, and her delicate spirit shied away from conflict and strength; from anything which threatened to break what little resolve she had. The only indication of her distress was a light sigh which escaped her, and which could safely go unnoticed by Margaret.

Within thirty seconds the three children were waiting in the blustery wind alongside their parents and eldest sibling, each one's nature vastly different, but each one drawn together by their common blood. When the carriage pulled up the drive and came to a stop, and the door was flung open and the steps drawn out, Rosaline climbed into the cozy little car, the violent sounds of the storm being muffled as the door swung closed behind her. She leaned her little head against the wall adjacent to her seat, pillowing her soft cheek with her hand, and was shortly fast asleep.

----

"Rosy! Wake up!"

Rosaline opened her eyes and saw Margaret's face closely hovering above her own. She slithered up into a sitting position, though still under the scrutinizing eye of her sister. Once she was able to again sense to her full capabilities, she was surprised when she heard none of the violent rain which had lulled her to sleep and saw none of the darkness that had heretofore suffocated her sight. Margaret slowly drew away from her sister, and then gracefully alighted from the carriage. Rosaline quickly followed suit, though she more of stumbled than "gracefully alighted". When she had regained her footing, she would have thought herself in an entirely different world. Birds whistled and fluttered their wings; the sweet perfume of a June day could be tasted and smelt; wild, sloping hills and a stream flowed through the landscape. She would have thought herself in the Garden of Eden, had it not been for the grand house before her or her sister's incessant commentary.

The house, though neither natural nor wild, was, however, something remarkable. It was a regal, stone building, which was enhanced by its surroundings rather than providing a contrast with them. Rosaline, never having seen it before, was delighted by it, and liked it much better than she did the gloomy, somber appearance of her own home, even if it might have been just as large. She followed Margaret up a small set of stairs leading to a great veranda where there was assembled the rest of her family, who were conversing with an older man.

"That is our Uncle Darcy; you will remember him from the Christmas gathering last year," whispered Margaret as an aside to her younger sister, gesturing to the older man with whom their father seemed to be in earnest conversation. Rosaline did recognize the green-eyed man, though he seemed significantly less robust than she had remembered him. His hair was graying, and wrinkles tugged at his face, but she could discern that he was once very handsome.

Margaret proudly strode up to her uncle; but Rosaline felt too much intimidated by a man who had a property so wonderful and so vast. Instead her eyes wandered to a boy who was standing close by, though he was speaking to no one. Margaret had noticed him too; but she could take no pleasure in the society of a boy whom she was older and taller than, and whom she did not have the sisterly right of ordering about. Rosaline, however, was of a sympathetic nature, and only saw his melancholy expression: and, unlike her sister, she was drawn to weakness and not to strength; so she immediately went up to him. She thought that he had kind eyes, the same shade of sea-green as her uncle's, though set at a different angle. He had dark, wispy hair and ivory-colored skin, smooth and soft as a tree sparrow's bosom.

"Hello," she said quietly, smiling. Rosaline had a very sweet smile, though she had not much occasion to bestow it upon others. Her rare smiles were subsequently felt by its recipients, as they became her whole face, and the feeling flowed into her soft blue eyes. They were not the superficial smiles that Richard gave his batty old nurse when he was up to mischief, or the smirking smiles that Margaret gave people whom she wanted to please, using this as a method to cover up her displeasure. It was a smile which began in Rosaline's heart and not in the muscles of her cheek, and which earned her the compliments of being "the prettiest little girl anyone has ever seen".

"Hello," replied the boy, betraying much less emotion than his companion had in her greeting. He then bashfully averted his eyes to the ground, apparently unwilling to speak any further. Rosaline was of a timid nature, and would typically have turned away at this point; would typically have never said anything at all. But there was something about this boy that seemed to give her more animation and spirit than she was accustomed to. She was not frightened to be forward with him; probably because she perceived that she would receive little resistance.

"I think you are my cousin. Do you want to walk somewhere? This place is very pretty." As she said this, she looked around at the woody hills which she admired. She was fond of dispensing of her childish energy via long walks, and Margaret could not berate her for it if she went with her cousin.

"Okay," was all the reply she received, but it was enough. They walked down the steps from the veranda together, looking out at the bright and cheery day.

Rosaline did not plan to say anything, as she thought that it was a very pleasant thing to follow the trail which they were on, meanwhile looking at all of the colorful flowers and listening to the birds as they hummed their melodies. Whenever she was sad, all that needed to be done to remedy it was a walk; and with so many walks carved through this beautiful park, she could hardly comprehend why her cousin seemed so glum: and hoped to show him how very cleansing this whole process was. The boy, however, noticed very little, though Rosaline noticed so much. All that occupied his thoughts was his mother, who was miserable and feverish on her bed, and who could do little but moan and be unhappy. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Rosaline's artlessness. As it takes time for one to adjust to seeing a sunny field after having been in a dark cave, it took time for him to become adjusted to his cousin's brightness after having been in the company of so much misery.

"I don't think my mamma is going to live much longer," were the words he finally managed to form. Rosaline stopped and turned around on her heel, sincerely upset that this seemed to be the case.

"Would you like it if I gave you a kiss?"

Rosaline remembered a time when Richard had fallen and scraped his knee, and she had come upon him sitting in the mud, wailing and having a fit. She had been a little afraid of him, especially when her quiet but comforting words had no effect. The only thing which had gotten him to seem a little relieved of his trauma was when she bent over and kissed his head; and then he seemed soothed. And though her cousin's predicament was not quite the same as Richard's, how could giving him a kiss be detrimental? Her juvenile logic reasoned that it would soothe him as it had soothed her brother.

The boy was not really prepared for this proposition, and so he only said in the same tone as he had spoken in when she had before asked him a question, "okay". Rosaline put a delicate hand on his shoulder and gave him a light kiss on his cheek. He was surprised how gentle the sensation of her lips brushing against his cheek was, and decided that he rather enjoyed it. He smiled—and though it was a small smile, barely discernable, it was there, and Rosaline noticed it. She felt sufficiently satisfied that she had made him feel a little better, and they continued on down the trail, which now cut through a small copse.

"I don't know your name," murmured the boy, though Rosaline was quite capable of hearing his words.

"My name is Rosaline. And I don't know your name either."

"Fitzwilliam."

And from that day forward, Fitzwilliam and Rosaline had touched upon each other's hearts, however slightly and however unequally.


	2. Love's Forms

**Chapter One: Love's Forms**

_I met a little cottage Girl:_  
_She was eight years old, she said;_  
_Her hair was thick with many a curl_  
_That clustered round her head._

_She had a rustic, woodland air,_  
_And she was wildly clad:_  
_Her eyes were fair, and very fair;_  
_Her beauty made me glad._

—_W. Wordsworth "We Are Seven"_

_Sixteen years later_

Netherfield Park had the advantage of being situated on a hill, so that the view offered from its windows was always one of grassy terrain sloping downwards; so that not only the nearby groves and gardens could be clearly seen, but also the small wood a mile off, the winding road that cut through the countryside, and the other distant hills that faded into the powdery blue sky. If one were to peer through one of these windows, they would have seen a young lady with dark eyes that sparkled in the sunlight and raven curls that were piled atop her head in a careless but appealing fashion. She could be seen gazing through this scratched latticed window, studying the trees barely clinging to their leaves of red and orange; watching as a breeze carried them away, and they fell to their deathbeds amongst their withered and browned kinsmen. She had seen twenty such autumns, and was subsequently not sympathetic to the trees' plight; but rather enjoyed indulging her eyes by seeking out a maple with the most vibrant colors, storing its likeness in her mind.

She turned around to see a quaint paneled parlor, with plush sofas and draperies of a rich golden hue. Leaning his left arm on a tasseled pillow was a man of eight-and-twenty with a tall, masculine stature and vibrant sea-green eyes that smoothly moved across a many-leafed letter held before him. Conscious of being observed, he lowered the unfolded sheets before him, distracting his attention from the neatly-written calligraphy of a young lady's hand, and instead looked at a young lady. This is not to say that the letter was in any way deficient as far as letters go; but who can prefer mere words on a page to a beautiful youth whose eyes sparkle with delight as they behold you, and whom you love and covet above anybody else in the world?

"Whose letter are you reading?" asked she, approaching the reader with the train of her dress gliding silently behind. He smiled.

"Mine, I imagine." She seated herself next to him on the sofa, smiling archly.

"You willfully misunderstand me. I meant, who is it that wrote you the letter?"

"And I thought it was _your_ defect to willfully misunderstand others. And the letter, Elizabeth, is from my cousin Rosaline." He folded the letter and balanced it atop the tasseled pillow. Elizabeth looked at him with piqued curiosity.

"Why have I never heard anything of her before?" She thought it was strange how little she really knew about her fiancé, though what she did know, she loved. In fact, she was certain that no one could be more in love than she was; she completely adored Darcy, and this was very distinguishable in her features. Her complexion glowed, her eyes glittered with unusual luster, her movements and expressions were animated and vivacious.

"Because she has been studying on the Continent these ten years; though in her letter she communicates that she shall be back in England by Christmas, so you will meet her yet. She is Colonel Fitzwilliam's sister, you know."

"Actually, I _didn't_ know. I am sure she must be charming, considering that she corresponds with you."

Darcy was not going to argue with this, though he could think of many people whom he corresponded with who were anything but charming. His cousin, however, he could only recall with fond memories—her sweet disposition, and always compliant and affable; he had never, when they knew each other as children, heard a harsh word from her, or witnessed her doing anything uncouth or otherwise objectionable. His platonic love for her had never wavered; and he could still remember her kind eyes, which were the color of the sky on a clear day; her rosy cheeks that became her, her flouncing blonde curls. She was, in his mind, the very personification of charming: and he would not be sorry to see her again after ten years' absence.

"Not as charming as you, love," was his reply, his attention now on Elizabeth. He wrapt his hands around hers, pressing her palms with his thumbs and playfully swinging them back and forth. She smiled—a smile which was something like Rosaline's—a smile that could be seen in her eyes and felt in her presence. It was not a smile which she bestowed upon those who were foolish; not a smile which exhibited her delight in folly: it was one of complete adoration, of loving and being loved.

"Well, I should hope not. If you thought your cousin more charming than me, I should be very cross indeed."

He folded her in his arms and pressed his lips against her brow affectionately. Elizabeth looked up at him, resting her cheek on his breast, and said:

"We have been sitting for half an hour in Mr. Bingley's parlor, but have seen nothing of Mr. Bingley. Shall we go and reprimand him for neglecting us?"

"If that gives you pleasure. I myself would rather go and get lost in the woods."

"If we keep 'getting lost' in the woods, as you put it, every day, either no one shall believe us, or they shall think us very stupid. Mr. Bingley is not such a bad fellow that I would want to run away from him."

Darcy was content in recognizing that his future wife was, once decided on a point, very headstrong about it. So they stood up from the sofa, taking the other's hand, and exited the paneled parlor in favor of one of Netherfield's broad corridors with the intention of finding Mr. Bingley.

----

A little pond abutted the parsonage house of Kympton, the sun's rays glittering and dancing upon the water. Its murky waters were chilly in the October air, but still were a pair of small feet immersed in its depths. They sloshed in a rhythmical back-and-forth pattern; kicking, kicking, kicking. The feet belonged to a young girl sitting on a grassy bank, her slippers and stockings lying beside her amongst the clovers, the hem of her muslin dress occasionally skimming the pond's surface. She studied the water intently, her hazel eyes fixed on the ripples that emanated out when she sloshed about. Yellow curls hung freely down her shoulders, swaying as she tilted her head closer to the water. A breeze wafted through and she shivered, realizing it was cold, but too much pleased with wading in the pond to want to move. A scarlet leaf from the maple tree twirled as it fell into the pond, the only indication of its touching the water a gentle plop; and then it glided serenely along the surface, away from the girl and her wading.

"Edith! Get your things back on and come inside or you shall catch cold!"

The girl looked up at the sound of the housekeeper's stern tone, her almond-shaped eyes looking up and down the plainly dressed woman with a sad, pitiful glance. Mrs. Edwin, however, had a will of iron, and would not be swayed by such glances. She regretfully picked her feet up out of the water, taking up her stockings and slippers in her hands, and trudged up the slope to the house, looking as downcast as she could manage. Mrs. Edwin thought Edith's tendencies to try to make one feel guilty were one of her greatest defects. She pitied the girl, as everybody did; but no sweetness ever betrayed her, no compassion was discernible in her expressions. She was a firm advocate of "tough love", and believed that by being hard with her master's ward, Edith would be all the better for it. Edith, on the other hand, was a child, and thought as a child: she thought the housekeeper unpleasant and mean, and much preferred one of the other maids, Alice, who would dote on her and let her get away with things Mrs. Edwin would have found intolerable.

"Well, Mrs. Edwin," said Edith forlornly as she stepped through the threshold, "here I am." She then went off into the wainscoted sitting-room, where a warm fire burned in the hearth and the simple charm of the furnishings the young girl found particularly pleasing. She was not ungrateful for having been taken in by a kind man such as the parson, but she did not think this reason to not give the housekeeper a hard time. She flung her shoes and stockings onto the sofa, then sitting beside them with her legs curled beneath her.

Mrs. Edwin silently followed her, the same scornful expression set on her stony face. She crossed her arms as she stood before the girl, blocking her view of the fireplace, which Edith had been carefully examining. Edith looked up.

"Master will be home shortly, and I do not want him to find you as the mess you are now. Look at your dress—careless!—the hem is absolutely filthy. And your stockings grass-stained and your slippers muddy! Go on to your chambers and Alice will dress you. You are not fit to be seen, miss."

Edith huffed a small sigh, but acquiesced. She quietly exited into the hall and ascended the small stairway which led to the second floor, meeting good-natured Alice along the way. They entered her boudoir together, Edith sitting atop her bed and swinging her legs much in the same way she had earlier at the pond, and Alice choosing for her a powdery pink frock to dress her in. Alice was a pretty young woman of one-and-twenty, with pale pinkish skin and bright red hair that naturally curled in the most becoming shapes. She had a faint freckle about her cheeks, but one's attention was distracted from this defect by her luminescent green eyes. Even in her plain servant's clothing she was still admired as a beauty, the xenophobes point out her clearly Irish heritage if they will. Alice had a great affection for children, and especially Edith, an orphan like herself. She felt that it was owed to her young mistress to be spoiled and indulged, since her birth was unknown. Her principles were exactly the opposite of Mrs. Edwin's, which didn't make her the greatest of companions with Alice: but somehow these extremely different ways of treating the young girl balanced out rather nicely.

Alice dressed Edith, then combing her thick flowing hair with a gentleness which was a relief to Edith, whose head was particularly delicate; and then plaiting it so that she looked much more the dignified young lady rather than the wild pond-wading thing she had appeared before.

"There," said Alice with satisfaction, her taut lips curving into her peculiar smile; "you look very well, miss."

"I hope that Mrs. Edwin thinks so," replied Edith innocently, turning her head as she peered into the looking-glass in order to admire the maid's handiwork. "She said I looked quite unfit to be seen before. She is always so cross with me. I have told her that Simon does not mind if I have a hair askew, but I do not think she can help but be severe." Edith affectionately called her guardian by his Christian name, and though Mrs. Edwin always insisted that she pay her respects to civility and call him 'Mr. Mulligan', this only encouraged Edith to call him otherwise, as she delighted in vexing the old housekeeper so long as it did not affect her chances of eating the pastry tarts her guardian brought from the village. And Mr. Mulligan himself liked being called 'Simon', as there was nobody else in the world who could address him as such.

"Mrs. Edwin forgets her place," said Alice, petting Edith's hair affectionately, and then pushing the chair to the young girl's vanity back when Edith leapt to her feet.

"I dare say she thinks she can do as she pleases, since she is older than me and I have no parents." Alice frowned.

"I cannot conceive a servant treating you in that manner. I have told her so, but she is a queer old woman." Then, going over the window at a sound suspiciously like a carriage coming up the drive: "Oh! Master is come home, miss; let us go down and meet him."

Edith eagerly went to the threshold of the house to greet Mr. Mulligan. He was but a young man, only twenty-five, but passionately idealistic. Though he had no great fortune, Kympton was a very nice parsonage, and he could only in good conscience enjoy its comforts unless he shared them. He had been raised primarily by his mother, his father dying of a fever when he was very young, and subsequently had what some people may call a woman's tenderness; but he was not embarrassed of it, so no one else thought it was embarrassing. Mr. Mulligan had only buried his dear mother the year previous; but he was not one to mope of the past, and did not yearn for her presence now. In fact, he was blessed with one of the most fortunate traits a human can possess, of being sensible. It is true that he held to his beliefs with fervor, but this does not follow that he was eccentric in choosing his beliefs, or tried to impose them upon others. He gave sermons that did not attempt to persuade his audience to share his own personal beliefs; it was rather his goal to only make people better, not to make them like him.

He welcomed Edith's kisses on the cheek, kneeling and giving her a quick squeeze by way of a hug. Edith really loved Mr. Mulligan, and her countenance reflected in it; she became much more animated in his presence, always eager to listen to him and be the perfectly enthusiastic little girl that she could be when she willed it. In turn, Mr. Mulligan thought Edith the sweetest child in the world, and was grateful to Providence for blessing him with such a charge. Mrs. Edwin, who observed it all from the hall, was not so pleased. She felt that this was rather a façade that Edith put on for her master, observing that she could be quite bratty at other times. She felt that there was some mean deception on the part of the little girl, for she knew that Edith spoke ill of her to the other servants and even to Mr. Mulligan, simply because Edith did not like her; simply because she did not understand her ways of discipline.

"Simon, I found this by the pond to-day," said Edith merrily, producing a small bouquet of wildflowers from the end table beside her.

"Thank you! You are a good girl," praised Mr. Mulligan warmly, looking over the bouquet of brightly-colored flowers, touched that Edith had thought of him in his absence.

Edith raised her eyes to Mrs. Edwin's only once as they quitted the room so that they might dine, with a challenging, playful glance. Mrs. Edwin shook her shoulders, like a fine old raven ruffling its feathers; she felt certain that behind that girl's innocent appearance, there was something of a rebel.


	3. Nocturnal Contemplations

**Chapter Two: Nocturnal Contemplations**

_One shade the more, one ray the less,_  
_Had half impair'd the nameless grace_  
_Which waves in every raven tress,_  
_Or softly lightens o'er her face;_  
_Where thoughts serenely sweet express_  
_How pure, how dear their dwelling-place._

—_G. Byron "She Walks in Beauty"_

Elizabeth, who had now taken the surname Darcy, stared into the ceiling of Venetian plaster, feeling weary. It had been a long journey from London, where she had been staying previously with her husband; but as November wilted into December, Christmas loomed nearer, and thus Pemberley beckoned the presence of its master and new mistress. The room was enveloped in shadow, with only the dim light of a candle to illuminate the murky figures of the well-furnished parlor. As Elizabeth's gaze wandered to the window, the only thing that could be seen through the lattice was darkness: the sky was starless, the moon hidden behind clouds resting in their airy beds. She sat up with a small sigh as a flood of recollections rushed back to her. Soon she would no longer be able to hear the gentle creaking of the house as the floor settled or the light footsteps of the chambermaid wandering the hall; soon she would be hostess of a full household. The thought was rather overwhelming; she was not used to living in so grand a house as Pemberley, let alone running one.

_But I will not be alone_, she reminded herself, straightening her posture now and smoothing her skirts. Besides, it had been too long since she had seen her family; and she was yet to meet most of her husband's. Though with this thought was also accompanied the bitter remembrance of a very much less-than-cordial correspondence with one Lady Catherine de Bourgh; and that lady's assurances that they would be the contempt of the world, ignored by all who had ever dared to concern themselves with Darcy. But this was not what nettled Elizabeth. She was not so foolish so as to lose composure over the empty threats of a widowed duchess; it was the fact that not all were happy about her marriage, thinking that she was a fortune-hunter and her husband was a man easily tempted by the charms of a country youth. But she soon shook away the thought. _I am not afraid._

The click of a door opening and then closing distracted her thoughts from the prospects of the future and instead brought them back to the present. She had half-expected to see her husband entering, but instead it was her new sister. Georgiana Darcy had spoken very little to Elizabeth over the course of their acquaintance, which some may have attributed to an unjust repugnance or hauteur; but the motives behind Georgiana's reserve were quite the opposite, really. She had always a fear of saying something which would displease her companion, and thought she would give less offense by holding her tongue rather than saying too much. She had a great distaste of listening to someone rattle on; therefore she thought it reasonable others should feel the same.

Georgiana smiled at her sister-in-law by way of a greeting, though this could have easily gone unnoticed in the darkness. She glanced over at where she knew the fireplace to be, though it had not the faintest hint of glowing coals or a crackling fire. This realization seemed to make the room seem all the colder in the December night, and she shivered, wrapping her woven shawl about her the more tightly.

"It is a little chilly," Georgiana observed in a near-whisper. Elizabeth looked up, perfectly able to hear the quiet words.

"Yes," she agreed; "perhaps we ought to go somewhere warmer. Frostbite, though it is plenty fun to get, becomes less charming once it sets in."

They silently stood, then exiting the room in single file. The only sound that could be heard as they walked down the hallway was the gentle tapping of silk slippers against the marble floor, and the rustling of petticoats. They had not walked far when they met Darcy exiting his study. He smiled, pleased that Georgiana and Elizabeth seemed to have some sort of companionship, even if it was of the silent sort.

"My two favorite ladies," said Darcy smilingly. Elizabeth rolled her eyes as her husband took her arm. It wasn't that she did not respect him, but that she delighted in teasing him. The three went along at a leisurely pace, making quite a nice exhibition, though it could unfortunately not be well appreciated in the dead of the night or in the seclusion of Pemberley.

Elizabeth's attention was now mainly focused on her husband: the subtle glowing in his eyes when she tightened her grasp on his arm, the way in which his dark hair curled and flowed from his scalp. His eyes likewise wandered to her, whereupon she smiled faintly, and then turned her head away, putting on the air of a modest young lady being caught in staring too long at a strange gentleman. However, she could not resist the temptation for long: soon she was looking at him as steadfastly as ever. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively; her face merely contorted with mirth as she stifled a laugh. Georgiana was on the other side of her brother, and very much ignorant of the subtle flirtation between the two persons to her left. She looked around at the paintings and tapestries which she had seen a thousand times before, and which she could embellish in her mind the details that were not present in the darkness. Like Elizabeth, she would be sorry for the house to be filled with guests, as she enjoyed the intimacy of just the three of them walking together, even if she was somewhat aloof from the other two.

"Did you say that Mr. and Mrs. Bingley will be arriving on the morrow, then, my dear?" asked Darcy, at last penetrating the silence. The trinity began to ascend the staircase.

"Yes," replied his wife; "I received a letter from Jane a while ago where she expressed her wish to come a little early. I couldn't very well deny her the pleasure, since it has been quite a while since I have seen her. But why so formal?—Jane your sister, and Bingley one of your oldest friends, and now your brother. I am sure these formalities are not required, _Mr._ Darcy."

"Very well then; I shall never call anybody by their formal name from this day forward, and constantly give offense."

"It is good to know you will do so simply to please me." Elizabeth felt that she had won at that battle of wits, since she received no reply to this comment. They went along in mutual silence, till Georgiana, who had been taking advantage of this period of time to plan out what she was to say very carefully, and conjecturing at her companions' reactions (particularly Elizabeth's, since she did not have many reserves when it came to speaking with her brother); and when she felt satisfied they could not take offense, boldly announced:

"I am tired, so I think that I will retire for the night. Good night." She was pleased when her declaration was met with that her brother and his wife were likewise tired, and would follow suit. So they parted in the hall, Georgiana going one way and Elizabeth and Darcy going the other, thus ending their midnight rendezvous.

As Elizabeth undressed herself and unraveled the plaits in her hair, she felt that she really was not afraid of Lady Catherine's threats or those of Darcy's relatives whom she was yet to meet. She had never been one to back down from a challenge; and this challenge was no different than any other except in its nature and its magnitude. It was not quarreling with the local youths or plodding through a thick volume; this was something which mattered: something that she would have to grow accustomed to as mistress of Pemberley. It was certainly a challenge that could be met with. When they had been previously in London she had discovered a miniature of Lady Anne, and as she admired the pretty likeness of Darcy's departed mother, she could not but feel a deep sense of relatedness. Lady Anne knew what it was to be mistress of all of the greatness that Pemberley was; knew what was expected. She was certainly a fine woman, with dark, thick hair and soft gray eyes. Her expression in the miniature was dignified and graceful; but portrayed in her eyes was the intensity which was typically sadly lacking in fine ladies. Elizabeth could easily esteem her, though she may have no longer been living.

"What sort of woman was she?" she had asked her husband, feeling no need to be delicate or reserved when speaking of his parents, as he had never betrayed any reluctance to speak of them, sometimes openly referring to them in her presence. She had held the miniature in her hand, twisting it about as she examined it from various angles.

"I confess that I do not remember her very vividly; she died when I was twelve. But I have always heard her spoken of as a principled, strong-willed woman: at least, I like to think of her that way. I remember that the entire family came when she was ill, so I think that she was well-loved. I wish I would have gotten to know her better, or that she may have lived longer so that Georgiana could have known her." Elizabeth smiled at this, and decided that she too would like to think of Lady Anne Darcy as a principled, strong-willed woman.

A brush being pulled through her hair woke her from her reverie, and she could feel the warmth of her husband's lips pressing against the nape of her neck. She didn't protest, and only took the moment to exhale a deep breath; and then her hair was being brushed again. Elizabeth lifted her hand from her lap and groped for Darcy's free one, which was at his side. She grasped it tightly, like a child saying "this is mine", intertwining their fingers. The brushing stopped again, and Darcy set the silvery brush aside. She turned around, staring into his eyes, saying nothing. She could only hear the wild pounding of her own heart and her shallow breaths. Her lip trembled slightly as he leaned in closer. She closed her eyes. She could feel his breath against her lips now. She could still feel his hand grasping hers.

----

Catherine drew her legs up closer to her, then resting her chin on her knee. An eerie silence had settled over Longbourn since the marriages of three of her sisters; and it had a sobering effect. To giggle or chat in her typical good-humored way would have seemed a superfluous way of expressing herself. So she sat in her boudoir in this unwonted quiet way, with the fire gently crackling and glowing in the hearth, her cream nightgown hanging loosely on her body. She held a book in front of her, barely able to make out its small print in the dimness of the night; indeed, she thought she had been reading one paragraph for the last quarter of an hour. Her eyelids felt laden with lead; it was a constant struggle to keep them open. The only thing that kept her from climbing beneath the thick covers of her bed and dropping off to sleep was sheer laziness.

"What are you reading, Kitty?" asked Mary. They had never been great confidantes in the past, but each preferred the other's company in favor of their parents'. Catherine could not have a conversation with her sister, however, without feeling a slight pang of annoyance: she could distinguish something patronizing in the tone of Mary's voice when she spoke to her; and though she had gotten more used to it as of late, still found it a little provoking. She closed the book and carelessly flung it on the little end table beside her.

"Oh, I hardly remember the title—some romance novel." Mary grimaced slightly, having a great distaste for romance novels herself. She had made it her goal in life to be constantly improving her mind and her talents, conscious enough that she was not the ravishing beauty that her other sisters were; and this was made blatantly apparent by the fact that three were married, and she was not one of them. She felt it was natural enough for her to resent this, and her mother had a tendency to indelicately point out that she was inferior. So if she did seem condescending or severe on Catherine's ignorance, it can at least be somewhat pardoned.

"I see," replied Mary, shutting her own thick volume with an impressive thump; then adding nonchalantly: "I was perusing the second volume of _Fordyce's Sermons_." She patted the spine of the leather-bound book, as if she had a great affection for it, and then let it rest on her lap. She gazed over at her sister, waiting for a response.

"Isn't that what Mr. Collins was reading to us that one time? I don't understand how you can bear it; I own that I was rather glad Lydia interrupted him." Catherine faintly wrinkled her nose, though this was not discernible to Mary, who was sitting in the corner which was some distance away. Mary was feeling rather nettled; she dared not account for it, but she had always felt that her sisters had treated their poor cousin unjustly when he had come simply out of the kindness of his heart. She thought that he certainly had a great deal more sense than the lot of them, too.

"Yes," she said pettishly. Either Catherine was too tired or too oblivious to the subtle intonations of her sister's voice to notice her annoyance (or perhaps it was a combination of both), and so she went on in the same casual manner, thinking it would be a very agreeable thing to change the subject before Mary commenced any of her sermonizing.

"What do you think of going to Pemberley for Christmas this year? I am quite wild to go myself; I do want to see the place very much—so grand, Mamma assures me, and so large! And everyone will be there; well, everyone except Lydia, but I hardly expected that." Catherine paused for a moment to mourn the loss of her younger sister's company, whom she had always had everything in common; she felt so easy around Lydia, and had never to question whether this or that was the right or prudent thing to do, since she could simply follow her sister's lead. She felt a little abandoned; now only Mary, Mamma and Papa remained: she hardly knew what to do with herself. But she could think of Pemberley and be merry again. "And the gifts Jane sent us," she continued, "the wrap she sent me was true Indian muslin, I declare! I am so delighted with it."

"The library I have heard to have one of the most extensive private collections in the country," said Mary, who would not allow her thoughts to think of finery. She was a young lady, and could not deny that when she saw sparkling bright jewels that her heart gave a flutter; but she would not be seen as silly: she could suppress her capricious and materialistic desires. She stood, cradling her copy of _Fordyce's Sermons_ in her arms, and announced that she was going to retire for the night. Catherine bid her sister good-night after releasing a violent yawn, and then crawled into bed herself.

She wasn't quite sure what to expect from life. Before she had been contented with dancing and handsome soldiers; but with the removal of her greatest influence, she had much more time to consider what was to become of her. The only thing for a lady to do was to marry or to die an old maid; and she certainly dreaded the reputation that came with the latter. Her eyes were being slowly opened to the realities of life, though she still looked upon former days with delight and tenderness, remembering how happy she had been, immersed in her fantasy world with balls and frivolous pleasures. But for now, she shut her eyes, and quickly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	4. Crossing Paths

**Chapter Three: Crossing Paths**

_I'm Nobody! Who are you?_  
_Are you – Nobody – too?_  
_Then there's a pair of us?_  
_Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!_

—_E. Dickinson_

"Well, what a pleasant surprise this will be for Lizzy, our coming three days early! There is certainly nothing so agreeable as seeing one's parents. And you know, Mr. Darcy will not mind. He was always quite the gentleman; yes, I dare say he will be quite delighted. And there will certainly be room enough—a place as grand as Pemberley! Why, I am sure they could host all of the King's army if they wished it." Mrs. Bennet had been rattling on in this way for most of the duration of the long journey to Derbyshire, having determined that it would be better to impose herself upon her second daughter sooner rather than later; and these self-assurances that it was the best thing in the world for her to do so were more for herself than for her husband, whom she sat beside as the carriage bumped along a country road. Catherine, who sat across from her mother, smiled placidly, though her thoughts were already at Pemberley.

"Yes—I am sure Lizzy has found that all of the radiating sense in her household has become quite oppressive," muttered Mr. Bennet, who rather felt they were taking too much of a liberty by arriving, unannounced, before they were expected; but he could not very well contradict his wife once she was set on doing something. Mrs. Bennet conveniently chose to ignore this insinuation, and instead addressed Mary, who had been intently poring over a book since they had left an inn in a small country hamlet early that morning.

"Mary, my dear, why not look out the window rather than read? You can do quite enough of that at home. The country is so wild in these parts—look at that little cliff in the distance! It is quite the thing. What a splendid place our Lizzy lives in now. I am prodigiously proud of her. My nerves were quite out of sorts when she turned down Mr. Collins, but I see the sly little thing had planned to get Mr. Darcy all along. Oh! My dearest girl! I am sure she must keep so many carriages, and wear such fine jewels." Mary momentarily lifted her eyes from the page she was reading, but then finding her mother quite content in raving about Elizabeth, recommenced her studies. She was not going to allow her mother's opinion of her inadequacy be shoved into her face when she might divert herself with something useful.

Mr. Bennet, on the other hand, was rather amazed at his wife's ability to completely misconstrue Elizabeth's character; but he decided to keep this sentiment to himself, feeling that it would be utterly futile to express it. Catherine paid no attention to these ravings, though she did find that the little cliff alluded to was quite delightful. She had never traveled very far from Longbourn herself, so her infatuation with these foreign landmarks was like that of a young child's. She was feeling antsy and anxious to be at Pemberley and to be dining with Mr. Darcy's high relations. Would Elizabeth buy her a new dress? Well, of course she would! She smiled at the thought, thinking her vanity would be much flattered this Christmas. A light frost had settled on the ground outside of the carriage, and it would have probably been quite chilly in the car had the four not been so nicely crammed in.

Even Mrs. Bennet eventually gave way to some reverie or other, and so the rest of the journey passed by in relative silence; only were the senses of each stirred when the carriage slowed and then came to a stop. Mrs. Bennet's dark eyes immediately glittered with the prospect of at last seeing that fabled house that she so often bragged of, and her chatter immediately returned, spoken with increased fervor and speed.

When she alighted from the carriage after her husband, she was exclaiming: "Oh! It is everything I imagined it to be and more! Look, Kitty—is it not the grandest place you have ever seen? My goodness, and to think that my Lizzy is mistress of all of this! Mr. Bennet? What is it? Who was that you were just speaking with?"

"I was speaking with the footman," explained he, sidling up to his wife; "and the Darcys, it seems, are dining out. That is the price to be paid coming unanticipated, you see."

"Oh, never mind that! There are servants enough to accommodate us, my dear. And it will make the impact of the surprise all the more thrilling. I am glad that they are not here just yet. I dare say they will return very shortly. And the footman will show is into the drawing-room, I suppose? Come along, girls! I have a great hankering to see the interior of this fine place immediately!" She clapped her hands together and bustled along towards the stairs leading up to the veranda.

Catherine and Mary trailed their mother, both in evident admiration of the splendor that was Pemberley. It was certainly not like any fine house that either had seen before; it was surrounded and nurtured by nature and beauty, and void of all of the tacky improvements that usually made an evident point of the tastelessness of its owner rather than complimented it. _It is like a paradise_, thought Catherine, and privately adding that perhaps Mr. Darcy was not as proud and disagreeable as she had supposed him to be formerly. She tucked a stray hair into her bonnet as she proceeded, then pausing for a moment as she studied the stream which ran alongside the stone building.

"Make haste, Kitty, and be a good girl. You should know by now that if you are naughty, there will be no balls at all for you," threatened Mr. Bennet jestingly. Catherine felt the full force of the insulting nature of this comment, however, feeling that she had deserved no such allusion to the (imagined) resentment that her father harbored against her since her concealment of Lydia's intentions to elope with Mr. Wickham. The tears filled her eyes, and she turned away, saying in a bitter passion:

"I do not want to go inside just yet. I will walk around. I have a will of my own, you know." And she started off in the opposite direction, as she could perceive a trail which went off the drive, hastily wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"Kitty! You will get lost, certainly!" cried Mrs. Bennet somewhat exasperatedly. But she didn't stop. She was too upset with her father and the rest of her family for not understanding her sudden desire to be alone. The only thing which could console her hurt pride was the inoffensive dead foliage of Pemberley's grounds. She stalked off along the trail, examining with needless intensity the leafless trees and frosty undergrowth. She crossed her arms defiantly as she went up the winding hill, not heeding her family's protests that she immediately return.

Catherine walked around in this brooding way for some indefinite period of time, till she became suddenly conscious of the cold and the gathering clouds above her. She pulled her bonnet forwards so that it shielded her brow from a slight chilly breeze, and then wrapped her arms the more tightly about herself, clenching the sleeves of her cream-colored traveling coat. Luckily she had kept to the trail, so she did not deem herself to be hopelessly lost. She could no longer see the house through the scores of thickly-clumped trees; but she turned round with every intention of going back. It was enough that her father would be sorry for his offensive joke; and perhaps her sister had returned by now. She started a bit, though, when she heard some rustling behind her. She turned round again on her heel, secretly hoping that it was only some harmless hare that had come skipping across her path. She saw nothing, however, and stood still for some moments, paralyzed by her paranoia. However, soon she could perceive someone approaching her.

"Halloa!" cried a small voice. Catherine relaxed a little, finding that she appeared to be approached by no frightening creature. As the figure drew nearer, she saw that it was only a little girl, about eight years of age. Her face was glowing with the warmth of exercise despite it being a drafty, chilly day. She was dressed in a heavy wool cloak and she had a bonnet fastened round her neck, though it had fallen so as to reveal her long flaxen curls which hung somewhat untidily about her cheek. The girl smiled widely at Catherine, seeming to think this chance meeting no strange or disagreeable thing at all. Remembering her manners, she quickly fell into a slight curtsey.

"Hello," replied Catherine amiably, mimicking the civility and allowing her arms to fall languidly at her side. She could not but be positively affected by the pretty little child.

When she looked up from studying the girl, she was surprised to see a young man standing behind her. His complexion was likewise flushed, and he was breathing a little unsteadily from apparently chasing after the blooming adolescent. He had delicate, effeminate features with curling blonde hair of a slightly dustier shade than the girl's, and steely blue eyes. Catherine thought he looked too young to be the girl's father, and thought perhaps he was her older brother.

"Mrs. Darcy, I assume?" said the man with a hasty bow; "I am very sorry if we have intruded on your privacy—" But he stopped when Catherine began laughing.

"Oh, I am not Mrs. Darcy!" she quickly said in explanation; "I am her sister Catherine—or Kitty if you prefer—Bennet. But I will not tell Lizzy that you were here, if you rather I didn't. "

"Of course: Miss Bennet; we are exceedingly obliged to you. We don't make a hobby of trespassing on our neighbors' grounds, but Edith was admiring this trail, and I didn't see the harm in going on it this once." He gestured to the girl at his side to indicate that she was Edith. "But you are probably wondering who we are. I am Simon Mulligan, the rector at Kympton—and this is my charge, Edith."

_A clergyman_, thought Catherine with some disappointment. Her previous experience with men of that profession was not the best. When she thought of clergymen, she thought of strange, droll creatures who gave long sermons and read mind-wrenchingly philosophical books. _Sort of like Mary._ Her curiosity, however, was piqued by the fact that she recalled her brother-in-law Mr. Wickham once speaking of Kympton as the living he ought to have had; and that Mr. Mulligan referred to the young girl at his side as his "charge". She did have some sense of delicacy, however, so she did not inquire into this interesting choice of word.

Mr. Mulligan was examining his companion, like Catherine, with the utmost curiosity. He thought she looked a very pretty, genteel sort of girl, with clothing not entirely of the fashionable sort, but not quite plain either. Her amber-colored eyes seemed to almost glow in the dreary, bleak day—_like something ethereal; a fairy, perhaps_. She looked a bit disheveled, with mousy tresses flowing from beneath her bonnet in no particular arrangement; and as he studied her closer, he saw that those pretty eyes were slightly swollen and red, probably from crying. He thought perhaps the poor thing had undergone some sort of dilemma; so, with added gentleness, he said:

"We will not importune you any longer, miss. Good day."

"Good day," mimicked Edith with a nod of the head, then taking her guardian's hand, and they walked off in the opposite direction together. Catherine likewise turned and began retracing her steps towards the house. It began to snow a little as she neared Pemberley, which caused her to quicken her pace to a fast jog, and she consequently dirtied the hem of her dress from this reckless speed.

When she was shown into the guest parlor, she was met with several loud exclamations from her mother, who declared that her nerves had been sent in such a tizzy, what with her wandering around in a strange place. Catherine dealt with this the best she could, smiling mildly and dismissing claims of her being taken ill. Then she could greet her sisters Jane (who had arrived a few days previous) and Elizabeth and their husbands. She had never been very close with her two eldest sisters, but she was nonetheless pleased to see them. Marriage, she observed, had treated each well, and had by no means stripped them of the bloom of youth.

"Such a good house you keep, Lizzy!" said Mrs. Bennet, glancing around at the handsome furnishings and elegant draperies with satisfaction. "I dare say there is no need to economize when it comes to expenses—ten thousand a year! My heart flutters at the idea. But then it is not an idea, is it? Here is the reality. Oh, such a charming house: so fine, so grand!"

"Yes, Mamma," interposed Elizabeth wearily, noting that her husband had turned away since he could probably no longer fake a placid look; "In fact, I was wanting your opinion on—which color the sitting-room in my boudoir ought to be done in. I'll show you it right now, if you'd like."

"Of course, my dear," responded her mother, looking much flattered by her opinion being wanted on the décor of such a house. Elizabeth had not really planned for this little excursion, but she thought it preferable to her mother embarrassing them all as she rattled on in her thoughtless, impertinent way. Elizabeth took her mother's arm and they left the room.

No one spoke immediately once the door closed, as they were all apparently getting used to the sensation of not having Mrs. Bennet's shrill voice echoing through the room. Catherine glanced around, seeing Jane and Mr. Bingley seated beside each other on the window-seat, her father and Mary on chairs across from her, and Mr. Darcy in an arm-chair adjacent to the sofa on which Catherine was lounging. She could hear the faint tick of a grandfather clock in the corner, and feeling a bit oppressed by the silence, decided to say something to break it up.

"Are your relations coming for Christmas then too, Mr. Darcy?" She spoke of a subject which frequently entered her thoughts, for she very much wanted to dine with elegant ladies and gentleman whom she might have the honor of calling her family. And if there were a great many gentlemen, who was to say that one of them might not fall in love with her?

"Some of them," was the response. She thought this was all the response that she was to receive, and sunk back in the sofa; but then, thinking he ought to exert himself to be a little more sociable, added: "Two of my cousins are arriving on the morrow."

"Indeed!" said Catherine; "And who might they be?"

"Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lady Rosaline."

"They're married, I suppose?" Disappointment was evident in Catherine's tone.

"No, neither of them!" said Mr. Darcy, almost with a laugh; "They're brother and sister." Catherine colored slightly at her mistake, and decided that she wasn't going to speak anymore. After all, Mr. Darcy was a very high and imposing man, and she was a little afraid of offending him. _But this may not be so bad after all_, she added as an afterthought, remembering that her mother had always recommended her marrying a wealthy colonel. And then there was Mr. Mulligan—oh! But he was just a clergyman. Colonel Fitzwilliam was sure to be agreeable, and most likely dukes and earls dined at Pemberley all the time; and Catherine fancied with the eventual object of finding a wife: so why couldn't that wife be her?


	5. Forming Suspicions

_-tear- Why so scant on the reviews? I miss reading _everyone's_ feedback. Anyway, these chapters have been focusing on Kitty a lot; and while I do plan to have some more about the cousins and such, I hope it doesn't bother you that Kitty will remain one of the main characters._**  
**

**Chapter Four: Forming Suspicions**

_Consider for how much themselves shall gleam,  
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.  
When what's in velvet beyond doomed thought_

_is like a woman amorous to be known;  
and man, whose here is alway worse than naught,  
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—_

—_E. E. Cummings "A Connotation of Infinity"_

Elizabeth found that her eyes involuntarily wandered to the window overlooking the drive the following day as she sat beside it and whiled away the time with some needlework. She had been curious about her new cousin, and was only the more anxious to at last meet the magical Lady Rosaline after hearing nothing but warm praise of her from her husband. She had observed he was disposed to like nobody, and therefore came to the conclusion she must be extremely amiable and pleasant. Colonel Fitzwilliam, too, she would receive great pleasure in renewing acquaintance; but the unknown is much more exciting than the known. At the sound of the door opening she started a little, her attention having wandered to conjectures as to what her new cousin looked like. Elizabeth envisioned a short but not slight lady, with all the distinguished features an earl's daughter ought to have; and with a smiling countenance not unlike Jane's, agreeably disposed, guileless and unafraid.

Had she been so absorbed in anticipation of Lady Rosaline's arrival that she had completely missed the carriage pulling up the drive, her being shown into the house, her approaching footsteps? No, it was only her sister Catherine, wearing a clean white frock and a broad smile. Catherine had worked herself up into quite giddy spirits, which had been a happy feeling she had not the pleasure of experiencing of late, shut up in quiet Longbourn with her sober company (she was not thinking of her mother when she gave her family this label, as it would certainly not do Mrs. Bennet justice to be called 'sober'). She was as eager to meet the mysterious cousins as Elizabeth was, and happily traipsed over to the window, resting her hand on the painted windowsill; and after studying for a moment the frosted wintry landscape, turned to her sister and said brightly:

"I am so pleased some of your Mr. Darcy's high relations are to come to-day. Mamma says one of the gentlemen may take an especial interest in me; and it has been so dull, you know, in Meryton, without anyone about."

Elizabeth set aside her needlework, saying with a small smile and a gently reproachful tone, "I would not take Mamma's word as absolute truth. Pemberley is not all about grand furnishings and my husband's high connexions."

"Oh, of course not!" said Catherine, blushing a little, as she had become more conscious of late as to other's remarks and expressions. She had no one to guide her, therefore she was left to guide herself; and her best guide at present was these subtle insinuations of others. "I dare say the grounds are very beautiful. I took a turn in them, as I am sure you recall—quite splendid." Pretty compliments never did anyone any harm, and it had the double purpose of softening Elizabeth's reproof. Catherine had half a mind to mention that she had met the parson and his pretty little girl on the way; but then recalling that she had promised not to tell, stopped short of making any comment. One of the things she prided herself in was her ability to keep confidences; after all, she had never uttered a word about Lydia's intended elopement, though that had gotten her into a bit of trouble; but now was not the time to betray her character merely for the purpose of making small-talk with Lizzy.

"Yes; though this cold December does not due them justice." Elizabeth reflected back to her first experience of Pemberley in the summer, and how everything had bloomed and throbbed with life, like the steady pulse of a living heartbeat. They sunk into silence for several minutes, Catherine languidly tapping her fingers against the windowsill, Elizabeth taking up her needlework again and concentrating on its minutiae as her needle weaved through the cloth.

"I dare say you've already met Colonel Fitzwilliam and his sister," said Catherine a little unceremoniously, giving the Colonel's name and not Rosaline's because the former was the one who had chiefly occupied her thoughts. Any report Elizabeth could give about them could no doubt embellish her already interesting fancies.

"I had the pleasure of meeting Colonel Fitzwilliam when I visited Charlotte and Mr. Collins this Easter; but I am yet to meet Lady Rosaline. Apparently she has been studying on the Continent these past years, and has only lately returned to England."

"Has she? Just as a lady should!" exclaimed Catherine, followed by a slight wistful sigh, for she would give an arm and a leg to be a refined lady; then, recalling her primary goal, said, "and what of Colonel Fitzwilliam? What is he like? I dare say very handsome."

"Colonel Fitzwilliam is a very pleasant gentleman, and I fancy we became fast friends in Kent; but I would not call him handsome." Catherine was a little nettled at the thought of Colonel Fitzwilliam not being handsome, but soon shook off the feeling, deciding that Lizzy's idea of handsome was probably nothing like her own.

----

Mr. Mulligan had received the uncommon pleasure of being invited to lunch at Pemberley; and was all the more shocked at there being a special request enclosed that Edith might delight Mr. and Mrs. Darcy with her company as well. It is true that luncheons were seldom held at Pemberley, as the master was usually away; but now that he was married and settled, such dynamics were apt to change. There was also that the new mistress was a more sociable creature in general than her husband and that while he disliked anything akin to coarseness, and children being naturally coarse, any such parties were usually limited to adults. Elizabeth, however, had a great fondness for children, and did not take much delight in smart but dull gatherings where the most exciting topic broached was of the weather. So, with the established opinion that Edith was a sweet, passionate kind of girl, she had urged her husband to allow for some younger companions to the luncheon, reminding him he would probably have to get used to children if she ever had any. After all, Christmas was near, and 'twas the season for such generosity.

So Edith was dressed in her best frock, a silk gown of light lavender, with slight lace trimming round the neck. Alice was curling her blonde hair into neat ringlets, and she wore a bracelet round her right wrist which had been the late Mrs. Mulligan's, and was therefore a little too large and a little out of style. Indeed, it slid off her wrist altogether as she lifted her hand to rest it on her vanity, dropping on the floor with a faint clink. Alice took note of this, pausing in her careful work on Edith's hair to pick it up, and clasping the bracelet as the emerald jewels faintly glimmered in the pale sunlight, said:

"You are not big enough to wear this yet, miss. Well, no matter! It does not match very well anyway."

"It was so heavy, too.—oh, are you quite done with my hair? Mrs. Edwin and Simon seem to think going to a luncheon is quite the thing, but I do not see why _I_ have to go. I do not think girls usually do. I would much rather spend the day outside than at whatever place I am going to." Edith made a point of grimacing so as to demonstrate her repugnance at being dressed up and having to behave as the picture of politeness for a day.

"Pemberley is the place of course, miss; and I think any girl should be delighted to go there—I know _I_ would—it is the home of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. I venture it is true that girls such as yourself do not usually go to such fine houses, but that should make the honor all the greater." Alice usually agreed with Edith, but she was of the general opinion that Pemberley was the closest thing to paradise there was, and her thoughts of it were wrapt in a shining, glowing aura which was as ambiguous as it was delightful. Edith thought for a moment, wincing slightly when Alice pulled on a curl, and then remarked:

"Oh! I remember Simon was chasing me around there the other day—he said something about it being called Pemberley too, but it looked like a bunch of woods to me—and then we met with a pretty young lady, and I liked her very much. I suppose I will not mind seeing her again."

"You met Mrs. Darcy?" asked Alice with unconcealed awe, the circulating description of her being something along the lines of 'a pretty young lady'.

"That's who Simon thought she was too. I dare say everybody thinks she is Mrs. Darcy, when she is not. No, it was her sister. I forgot her name. But she laughed when Simon thought she was Mrs. Darcy, and said that she would not tell we had been there. She and Simon seemed to think this was a bad thing, I suppose."

"Hmm," was all the reply Edith received to her musings, and then her coiffeur was declared to be just right. She leapt from her chair, anxious to have her little feet in eager movement again, and she hastily descended the staircase when she perceived Simon standing in the little entrance hall below. It was only after she had kissed her guardian and declared that she was quite ready to go did she notice Mrs. Edwin standing in the corner, giving her a very severe look. _I suppose she does not think smart young ladies kiss people or run about_, thought Edith as she took Mr. Mulligan's hand and they walked out together, going down the dusty lane while taking care they did not dirty themselves as they approached the town.

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's coach had been ordered to collect them, along with a few of the other villagers, and the impressive vehicle was parked in the cobblestone street outside, the Darcy crest glimmering impressively in the December sunlight. A woman and a boy piled into the coach, Edith recognizing them as her neighbors from down the way; and she and Mr. Mulligan quickly followed suit. Soon they were being carried off to the splendor that was Pemberley, Edith with her eyes fixed on the window as the landscape changed from that of a tame country village to the wilder woody hills that cradled Pemberley House. And when the great stone building came into sight, she could not help but gape a little in awe. In her short eight years of life she had never seen Pemberley or any other great house for that matter. Her experience of dwellings had been pretty much limited to those in Lambton; and what were they compared to this? She supposed that Mrs. Darcy's kind sister must be very rich indeed! The coach pulled up the drive and slowed to a stop, the people contained within eagerly alighting from it and plodding up the perron. Edith stood close to Mr. Mulligan, tightly grasping his hand as he led her to the wide veranda paved with smooth stones, awed and intimidated by all of the elegance and grandeur.

"Is it not beautiful, my blossom?" was all he whispered into Edith's ear, and all she did was nod in reply. As they were shown inside, she was shocked to see all of the servants that went through the halls, when they kept but three; and how high the ceilings were, and how beautiful the various tapestries and furnishings!

Into the guest parlor they went, Edith barely conscious when they had reached their destination; but soon she saw the impressive personages assembled to receive the 'commoners'. She saw a handsome young lady with thick raven tresses and a gray silk gown; a younger girl, also with dark hair, but taller and stouter; a middle-aged woman with a great, white feather bobbing about her hair—and—there was the young lady she had met in the woods! She did not look nearly as wild as she had then, her hair neatly done and her white dress unwrinkled and clean, with a pale blue ribbon secured about the waist; and so her eyes fixed on her, being the only face she recognized.

Introductions were being made, and Edith learnt that the lady in the gray silk was Mrs. Darcy, the tall girl was Miss Darcy, the older woman Mrs. Bennet, and her previous acquaintance (she remembered the name once she heard it) Miss Catherine Bennet. There were several others as well, whose names she did not have the privilege of remembering—a Lady Rose-something, a colonel fitted out in a brilliant coat of scarlet, a beautiful blonde lady and her husband, Mrs. Bennet had a husband, Mrs. Darcy had a husband, another Miss Bennet with an appearance much more stern and much less inviting than Miss Catherine's. How was she to remember who was who! When she shook hands with Catherine, they greeted each other quite affably, and Catherine and Mr. Mulligan exchanged a knowing smile as a tacit allusion to their previous meeting.

While Edith was being ushered along in this rather confusing way, Elizabeth was standing aside, greeting all of her guests, and pleased that everybody seemed quite contented. She had learnt it had been the late Lady Anne's custom to condescend to invite the villagers to luncheons such as these, and she meant to honor this tradition; and she occasionally looked to her husband to see how he was faring, to discover pretty much what she had expected: that he did not seem particularly pleased, but neither did he come off as disagreeable.

Yes, she had met Lady Rosaline, who had arrived a few hour's prior. She was surprised at how uncommonly pretty she was, well-grown with large blue eyes and flowing yellow hair. Though her air could not be described as grave, she was very quiet, only exerting herself to speak when necessary, and never smiling; but if her husband's personality was any clue as to what the rest of the family was like, she was probably not at ease around strangers. Nonetheless, she was quite the lady, very compliant, and with her own quiet kind of artlessness. Elizabeth had rather wished her family would not have been gawking at Lady Rosaline the whole time, but came to the conclusion that she ought to have expected no less from them. Well! Her ladyship's character was undoubtedly of the complex nature, and would take some time to work out (she was more wary than she used to be about judging by her first impressions).

Catherine was standing several feet away from Elizabeth, engaged in much the same activity. She had been intimidated by Lady Rosaline, interpreting her quietness not as shyness, but as carefully wrought-out reserve. And then Colonel Fitzwilliam! Well, she was quite disheartened that he was not handsome at all, and that perhaps her taste was more like Elizabeth's than she had imagined heretofore. He was single, yes, and in the military, yes, and undoubtedly quite rich and good-humored—alas that he should fall short of being handsome! If not for that one major flaw she would have been completely besotted with him; but as it was, her highly piqued interest had sunk only into something just a level above indifference. Well, she could console herself with seeing Mr. Mulligan and his 'charge' again; and indeed, she was glad to see that they did not seem to have forgotten her judging by their significant looks in her direction.

Rosaline's thoughts were much more wearying and of much more gravity than Catherine's. She had principally spent most of her time thus far at Pemberley with her eyes glazed over with a cloudy expression, her mind reeling and her heart beating thick in her chest. When she had read her cousin's reply to her last letter with news of his marriage to a Miss Bennet from Hertfordshire, she could not have been more shocked; but the shock soon faded, only to be renewed again and with double the intensity upon actually meeting Fitzwilliam's young bride. And then she was back in England after being gone for so long! And then—well, she was not at leisure to peruse any more thoughts, as the guests from the village were arriving for the luncheon. She was surprised when she saw a familiar face among the crowd; and the recollection of how she recognized it did not immediately strike her; but when it did, she thought her heart skipped a beat, and she swallowed some lump that had been building in her throat before hastily looking away.

So the villagers were introduced to the Pemberley party, and then a snack of cold meats was brought in, Edith not hungry, but finding that eating was the best way to avoid making eye contact with any of the grand people she was surrounded by. Soon, however, she perceived Miss Catherine sitting on a plush sofa in the corner and aloof from the rest of the party; and she found this encouragement enough to join her there. She swallowed her morsel of cold chicken, and then ambled over to her fine friend and sat beside her.

"Do you like being here then?—at Pemberley, I mean?" asked Edith, glancing around at the paneled walls decorated with various windows and draperies.

"Very much; shouldn't you like staying here?"

"Oh, Alice and everyone else tells me I ought to; but I think I would be afraid."

"Are you afraid now?"

"Yes, a little," said Edith in her honest way. And why shouldn't she have been afraid, with everything so big when she was so small, and used to the small?

"I don't think there is anything I like better than places like this. I feel like a queen when I am here. I just want to walk through the rooms, and pretend that it is all mine—though it isn't really, but I would like it to be."

"I feel like a grain of salt in the sea." Catherine laughed.

"Do you? Well, I suppose it all seems larger to you, since you are shorter."

"And poorer!"

Catherine looked over the rest of the party, her eyes particularly searching for Mr. Mulligan, as she supposed where his little girl went he was bound to follow. She saw that he was sitting in an armchair, apparently talking to no one, though staring very intently across from him. Across from him was seated Lady Rosaline, who was apparently not noticing this earnest gaze (or more likely, avoiding it), but rather seeming very fascinated with her hands. She studied this scene for a while, Edith still transfixed by the décor, till Mr. Mulligan abruptly looked up, at last seeing herself and his ward sitting together in the corner, switching his expression from one severe to one all friendliness and affability. He seated himself across from Catherine and Edith.

"Well, Miss Catherine, this is quite a nice gathering that your sister has planned."

"Oh, of course! I would not know what to think if it was not nice, or even splendid. Mamma (gesturing to Mrs. Bennet, who was engrossed in chatting with one of the more distinguished ladies from the village) even helped in the planning."

"I dare say it is beyond splendid; 'quite nice' does not do it justice at all, I assure you miss. And you did not do anything? Perhaps those lilacs there are your arrangement?"

"Indeed no, I am no good at those sorts of things. Lizzy got the lilacs from the conservatory. It is quite the room, and I would show it to you, but I do not think we ought to abandon the party."

They chatted in this good-humored, light way for some time, till Catherine's attention was caught by Lady Rosaline once more when she walked past, and she likewise observed Mr. Mulligan's affected countenance. Well, here was something interesting to ponder and conjecture at! As she did not feel intimidated by Mr. Mulligan, she really did not have any reserves in speaking to him; so once Lady Rosaline had reseated herself and seemed out of ear-shot, she remarked:

"I cannot help but notice, Mr. Mulligan, how often your eyes are directed towards Lady Rosaline."

She thought the natural thing was for an explanation to follow; undoubtedly it was to be a good one; and one which would excite the aspect of her personality that liked to be the sole confidant of a secret; but at first he said nothing, his look now unwontedly grave. Even Edith was a little surprised at Simon's stony expression, and thought she might say something to make him feel better; but before she could think of any such thing, he parted his lips as if to speak; but then closing them again, stood and moved away. It now dawned upon Catherine she may have offended him; and, blushing profusely, said to Edith:

"Pray apologize to Mr. Mulligan for me. I am very sorry if I have said something wrong."

"Well, you certainly _did_ say something; but I don't know what. You were quite right about his looking at that pretty blonde lady, Lady What's-her-name; but I will tell him, and I dare say he will forgive you. But I am your friend either way."

Catherine thanked her young friend, and then Edith moved away, allowing Catherine to enjoy mainly Mary's company for the remainder of the party. But even when the coach had come to take away the visitors again, and she bid Edith and Mr. Mulligan a modest good-bye, she had not taken leave of her suspicions.


	6. Past Events

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I appreciate it. Pyshcodelic-Pixie is my hero for her constant reviews. :-) And thanks to Swampi for a very thorough review--to answer your question, Edith is eight. If she seems a little mature for her age, that's probably because I don't exactly have much occassion to study the behavior of eight-year-olds. XD Also, today is my birthday! Yay! I'm fifteen._**  
**

**Chapter Five: Past Events **

_Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice  
as is your image in my eye; dry frost  
glazes the window of my hurt; what solace  
can be struck from rock to make heart's waste  
grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place? _

_—S. Plath "Winter Landscape, with Rooks"_

Rosaline did not like to make mistakes. Mistakes usually involved disappointment—not merely disappointment with oneself, as Rosaline could tolerate that—but the disappointment of those she cared about. And she did not like this kind of disappointment. All her life, she had thought she had been keeping herself away from scenarios in which it would be all too easy to make a mistake, and subsequently expose her to ridicule; and it was mortifying to find that in doing so she had also kept herself clear away from happiness, and that she had not succeeded in making herself infallible. She had made mistakes: mistakes that she would never be able to forgive herself for; mistakes that would haunt her for the rest of her life. It wasn't fair. What had she done to deserve her lonely, miserable fate? She had only ever wanted what every other person wants: safety. Feeling a loss of safety had sent her away; away to where safety was even scarcer.

A single tear formed in her eye and rolled down her cheek as she sat on the window-seat in the first floor drawing-room. She had sat in this chair ten years ago; and it all looked exactly the same, except now a cold rain beat against the windowpane and enveloped the room in colorless shadow. Except now she was ten years older; ten years wiser; ten years too late to save herself. She breathed in deeply, then lifting her delicate hand to wipe away her tear. Slowly she stood, now feeling she had spent enough time in repose so that she might once again face her company. But she was startled out of her languid mindset by the sound of footsteps, and then of someone entering. Composing herself, she smoothed out her expression to its usual serenity and folded her hands in front of her.

It was Mrs. Darcy. She was dressed in a loose-fitting yellow gown, of simpler design than she had worn at the luncheon a few days previous; clearly worn for comfort and not for appearance. She had an easy countenance, betraying through her expression the too-noticeable polarity of each lady's situation.

"Lady Rosaline," she said in acknowledgement with a nod of the head. Rosaline did likewise, and then was bid to sit down with Mrs. Darcy, which was really the last thing which would give her pleasure; but she was too polite to turn her down, so she silently acquiesced and seated herself next to the pretty young lady on the sofa.

"I am so happy that I have found you here," said Elizabeth with a small smile; "for I hope you will take tea with Mr. Darcy and me this afternoon."

"Thank you—I am much obliged," replied Rosaline in her quiet, earnest way. She could not bring herself to look Elizabeth in the eye; instead shifting uncomfortably, twisting her fingers about, and her eyes drifting to all objects but her hostess. "I hope—I will not be a terrible imposition."

Elizabeth laughed. "No, of course you will not be, or I would not have asked you. I will be so bold to say that Mr. Darcy takes great pleasure in your company, perhaps most of all his cousins; though I fear the acquaintance between me and yourself is quite slight."

"Does he?" was all Rosaline could manage to say before she felt the tears once more rising to her eyes, which did not go unnoticed by Elizabeth; and so Rosaline quickly said, "I'm sorry, but you must excuse me." And then she hastily left the room, feeling suffocated by the drawing-room which held so many memories, by the presence of a stranger making herself at ease among them; the only way to escape the feeling was to escape the room.

Elizabeth sat silently and disconcerted as the door clicked, announcing Lady Rosaline's exit. She had noticed her quiet, withdrawn behavior during her stay; but now suspected that something was truly troubling her, aside from being reserved in general. She felt a strange feeling of compassion for her, though she hardly knew her; certainly not well enough to speak with her in any amount of confidence. Her eyes studied the place in which her ladyship had sat, uncertain of what to make of her or her apparent predicament. Pursing her lip, she planned to reflect upon the subject for sometime in solitude; but one is not often at leisure to do so when a house is full with guests, and soon her sister Catherine had entered.

"Hello, Lizzy," she said, draping herself on the chaise by the fire.

"Kitty," said Elizabeth seriously, "what do you think of Lady Rosaline?"

"Lady Rosaline!" cried Catherine, surprised at the sudden question, though it seemed perfectly appropriate in Elizabeth's mind; "I am sure I do not know what to think of her, for she never speaks to anyone except your Mr. Darcy, and has probably not spoken three words together to _me_ since she came." Then after a thoughtful pause: "But you know at the luncheon where some of the villagers came, Mr. Mulligan quite stared at her the entire time."

"Mr. Mulligan?—the parson?"

"Yes, Mr. Mulligan." Catherine thought she had made an excellent segue to the subject which had been grating at her mind, and continued, "I got on well with his little girl—she is not his daughter, so I have no idea of their relation—her name is Edith. I was thinking of calling on her to-day. Don't you think that would be the right thing to do, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth was a little dazed by this sudden transition; but after taking several moments to orient herself with the new subject, said: "Mr. Mulligan, I believe, has adopted this Edith in a way. She is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom, and apparently discovered her when he traveled to Rome. As to your calling on her, I am sure there can be no objection to it; I can call for the carriage to take you there, as you do not know the way."

Catherine very much liked the idea of being taken to the parsonage via Elizabeth's carriage, as she would undoubtedly be much admired as she was driven down the lane in a vehicle with the Darcy crest; and she also had an ulterior motive to seeing Edith. She had been anxious and uneasy since her last meeting with Mr. Mulligan, and feared that she had not been forgiven for her remark; only seeing the man himself would assure her of whether he was still at odds with her. It was certainly not agreeable to have made an enemy within the first few days of coming to a new place; and they had got on so well, and seemed on the path to becoming such friends!

"Thank you, Lizzy. I do not think I shall stay long."

----

Edith was lounging on the sofa in the wainscoted sitting-room, yawning lazily as her governess, Miss Brendan, attempted to teach her some French. Attempted being the operative word, as her thoughts were a thousand miles away; and Miss Brendan, annoyed but not surprised upon observing the dreamy expression in her student's eyes snapped the book she had poised so elegantly in her hand shut with a loud bang. Edith started, waking from her half-sleep, smoothing her hair and swinging her legs onto the floor. Miss Brendan simply stared at her pupil for a while with her sharp gray eyes; giving her such a chilling glance that it seemed reprimand enough for letting her thoughts wander.

"I am sorry, Miss Brendan," said Edith pitifully, looking down and letting her arms drop to her side as if ashamed. The governess sighed and set the textbook on the table beside her, wishing that Edith was more willing to learn, yet at the same time not wanting to be hard on her.

"It's all right; just try to pay attention in the future." And so she was prepared to begin teaching again, till the sound of the doorbell deferred it all. Edith, happy for an excuse to neglect her lessons, leapt to her feet as if she had not just been daydreaming, and begged that she receive whoever was come.

Without waiting for an answer, Edith quickly slipped into the hallway, scurrying to the drawing-room, where visitors were always received, and quietly opened the door just wide enough so she could squeeze through. This accomplished, she glanced around with eager eyes to behold the mysterious visitor, and then her expression transforming from curiosity to delight once she saw that it was her new friend Miss Bennet. At first Catherine had looked at the girl dumbly; but once she stood in front of the window, where the sunlight poured through and illuminated her figure, she smiled with recognition.

"I am so glad you are come, Miss Bennet," said Edith cordially, and hastily took the chair beside her. Catherine gave a similar greeting, and then after a thoughtful silence, Edith asked: "But why are you come?"

"Because I wish to see Mr. Mulligan; he seemed cross with me when we last met."

"Oh, I remember! He was very quiet the rest of that day, and I couldn't bear it; I told him you were very sorry, like you asked, and he said that you were forgiven. Simon never lies, so I'm sure you are, but he kept on being so grave and solemn. I think there must be something else that is bothering him, other than what you said. I don't like that he seems so sad; so I hope you can cheer him up." Edith spoke earnestly and with a genuine concern for her guardian; she was used to seeing him tender, jolly; but not quiet and reserved. These differences in behavior were obvious enough to even be detected by her childish mind.

"I hope so," said Catherine sadly, though her mind was busy conjecturing as to what could be this foreign source of discomfort to the parson; then adding, "is he here now?"

"Yes, I think so." But as it was being said, Edith's suspicion was confirmed by the entrance of Mr. Mulligan himself. He looked well enough, dressed in his usual garb and with his hair tidy, though there was in his expression something unwontedly stern. This was not his usual look, and it did not become his girlish features and complexion well; and something amiss could be detected even by Catherine, who had only met with him twice before.

He took a seat beside Edith after exchanging the usual civilities; and after a brief silence which was not entirely comfortable, Catherine said pleadingly:

"I hope, sir, I have given you no offense in the past (not wanting to specifically state the comment she had made regarding Lady Rosaline). I am heartily ashamed of it if I have."

"Oh! Do not trouble yourself about it," he replied. He _had_ taken some offense, but he saw well enough that she was merely a young lady, and one of their favorite pastimes was making funny little observations such as Catherine had; and besides, it could do him no good to go around being put off by a sister of Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley. "It was very good of you to call."

"I am glad you have forgiven me. I am used to speaking my mind without any thought as to whether I shall be injuring someone. I hope you will come to Pemberley sometime. Well—I suppose I cannot invite you exactly—but I shall make sure Lizzy includes you in all of the invitations. Pemberley is so secluded, that I don't meet new people there very much—I mean, there are plenty of relatives about now it is Christmas—but I do not meet new people very much in general, and I cannot talk to all of these lords and ladies. Nobody is about where I live." _And he will no doubt want to come very often to see Lady Rosaline_, added Catherine privately.

"I am honored, miss." Mr. Mulligan could not help but be flattered that this genteel young lady with such high relations should condescend to call on a clergyman such as himself, and be so earnestly trying to gain his approbation. It was in Catherine's nature to want to be liked by those whom she liked, and she thought that Mr. Mulligan was very likeable when he was not being offended. She smiled at him widely, her cheeks dimpling; and he simply studied her, impressed by her youthful expression and artlessness. Edith sat prettily with her arms folded on her lap, though feeling a little bored; and then, looking at the pianoforte in the corner of the room, said with a sudden impulse to play:

"Miss Brendan taught me to play the piano a little. Do you want to hear a song, Miss Bennet?" And so she went to the instrument and began to delight her audience.

----

Elizabeth, Rosaline and Darcy were scheduled to take their afternoon tea in the conservatory, since it was Elizabeth's favorite room and by far the prettiest. There was a table in the center of the room, small, but sufficient to accommodate three; and Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were sitting on chairs gathered round it, with the tea things in the middle, patiently waiting for their guest. It was the usual ritual for them to have this meal always alone, but since the household was so full, they had decided to invite someone to dine with them every day till they once more had Pemberley to themselves (Georgiana aside); and Darcy, with all of his fond childhood memories of his cousin, had thought Rosaline would make delightful company for the occasion.

They sat in relative silence, not feeling the need to talk; and Elizabeth was pillowing her cheek with her hand as she looked about at all of the colorful plants and flowers in the conservatory, admiring them and breathing in their sweet aroma. She then lifted her head so as to study her husband instead, smiling contentedly.

"Shall we entertain Cousin Margaret to-morrow? Or should we save the best for last?" asked Darcy bemusedly. Elizabeth laughed. Lady Margaret, she had observed, took after her aunt Catherine; for she seemed to have a constant desire to be advising, reprimanding, and ruling over somebody; and this somebody took the form of her husband, Mr. Gibson. Mr. Gibson was an easy-going, good-humored man from a respected and ancient family, though lacking in cleverness. He was short and plump, with a sanguine complexion and straw-colored hair, and exactly disposed to take his wife's constant reproaches as lightly as possible and not mind bending to her will.

"The best for last, of course," said Elizabeth with a raised brow; and then, looking round, she saw that Lady Rosaline had at last arrived. She looked more her usual put-together and calm self than she had that morning, with her eyes brimming with tears and her words quiet and trembling. She sat down after greeting her hosts, not smiling, but not giving the impression of being grave or unhappy either.

"Did you lose your way, Rosy?" teased Darcy as his wife poured him his tea.

"No," replied Rosaline coolly; "I remember it as well as I did ten years ago. I also remember that no one has called me Rosy since I was a girl."

"What! Are you saying you don't like it? But I can never call anyone a name more than two syllables. Mrs. Darcy is Lizzy, and Georgiana is Georgy; you expect me to exert myself for you?"

Rosaline smiled at this, and it was the first occasion on which Elizabeth had the privilege of witnessing it; and she was surprised how different she looked when she smiled, with the mirth flowing into her eyes and brightening up her usually indifferent countenance; but when the smile faded, so did this momentary appearance of good humor, and she looked much as she did before.

"Very well, Rosy it is. But you must not expect me to call you any more than Darcy."

"Now, now, do you remember me being a hypocrite too?"

And so their afternoon tea proceeded in the same genial way; and Elizabeth was slightly envious of how naturally the conversation seemed to flow between her husband and Lady Rosaline, she contributing to the conversation now and then, but the other two dominating it. She was surprised at how altered a creature the earl's daughter was around people whom she was intimate with; but upon further reflection, supposed she ought not to have been, since this seemed to be a family trait. But even Rosaline, when she was at leisure to reflect upon the day, had not expected to feel so easy around her cousin, especially since her mind had been laden with woe and self-pity that morning. She would try not to think of it; she could not change the past; and the memories of it she could become numb to.


	7. The Censured and the Forgotten

**Chapter Six: The Censured and the Forgotten**

_Behold the keenest marksman!  
The most accomplished shot!  
Time's sublimest target  
Is a soul 'forgot'!_

—_E. Dickinson "Forgotten"_

"Well, Margaret, you can no longer deny it; Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy is wholly charming, and you have not remained ignorant of the fact." Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled as he said it, having the satisfaction of knowing rather than thinking his sister had been wrong.

The Fitzwilliam children had naturally enough gathered together in one of the various parlors in Pemberley, with the unwanted addition of the good Mr. Gibson; but they were all (with the exception of Margaret) too polite to throw him off; and Margaret felt her husband was very handy to have around, as she was sure of a constant supporter of her opinions. They had all gathered round a card-table near the fire, though paying little attention to the game, and more on their conversation. Indeed, the Fitzwilliam family had been reluctant to admit that Elizabeth was as charming a creature as ever (especially Peter, who, being considerably older than his younger siblings, had always been rather estranged from them, and who could not be convinced to come at all), with the exception of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had judged first-hand that Easter Elizabeth's character. Rosaline gave all the appearance of being disposed to approve of her, as this was her way with everybody; but in truth she had had her doubts, and did not think that anybody could possibly be good enough to deserve Cousin Darcy. It had been slightly to her dismay to observe Elizabeth's outspokenness and strength of character, which was something she greatly lacked in herself; so her conscience was telling her she ought to approve of Darcy's young wife, while the rest of her struggled within itself.

So the only of the extensive Fitzwilliam family who could condescend to visit Pemberley's new mistress was Margaret, Richard, and Rosaline; and Margaret only upon Richard's steady persuasion. Margaret had heard her brother's comment clearly, though she hesitated to respond, appearing to study her cards very thoughtfully; and then, once she had formulated a response which would not be admitting total defeat, lifted her eyes and said:

"I will grant you Mrs. Darcy is pleasant enough. Unpretentious and witty, to be sure; though I feel the loss of refinement. She certainly has raw country manners; I think Darcy could have done better to have married more of a lady. And the poor girl's family—have you taken a good look at _them_, Richard? Mrs. Bingley is a gentle creature, I suppose, though perhaps lacking in cleverness; but the eldest Miss Bennet, always reading and with her haughty airs; and then Miss Catherine, thoughtless and silly. The father's character I cannot vouch for, but the mother is _so_ grating."

Richard's mouth was compressed into a thin line, his displeasure with Margaret's keen ability to ignore the merits of the Bennets and former Bennets betrayed through his expression. Rosaline had not been observant or critical enough to notice all of these flaws, though Mrs. Bennet was certainly a little appalling; she wasn't sure if she agreed with the rest, but she dared not contradict her sister, as she never did dare to.

"I did not ask for your opinion of her entire family; only of _her_. But I will attempt to be satisfied with what you said on that head, though I do not think you do her justice. Her manners I cannot find fault with; I think these 'fine ladies' you speak of are so unpleasant and overly formal in their ways: I should infinitely prefer a country girl, in that case," said Richard, his expression invariably one of dissatisfaction.

Margaret clucked disapprovingly, then replied: "But one's family certainly should be taken into account when painting an individual's character, as they cannot but be influenced by their parents and siblings. Do not you think so, my dear Mr. Gibson?"

Mr. Gibson started out of some reverie at the sound of his name, as he had not been paying much attention to the discussion, finding cards infinitely more diverting; but as he could not bear the displeasure of his wife if he admitted his mind had wandered, simply gave his generic response in a very cheery fashion:

"Of course, my love; there is something in that."

This satisfied Margaret, and she smiled placidly, patting her husband's arm and gratifying him so that he no longer felt so guilty for having not been attentive to his lady's every word. Richard, whose displeasure was still evident through his countenance, did not reply to this, and instead avoided his sister's eyes and was gravely silent. Margaret was not vexed by this, as she considered this a victory for herself in their battle of wits, just when it had seemed the other way around; but Rosaline was sorry for him, even if her sympathy was not evident. Mr. Gibson then mentioned something of the fishing expedition he had attended with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Gardiner, the latter who had only arrived the previous day, portraying it as a pleasant experience without using words too strong or expressive in apprehension of displeasing his lady; and the tide of conversation was successfully redirected, though Richard still sat brooding and silent.

The room was relatively quiet, as the Fitzwilliams were not a loud or boisterous family, and Mr. Gibson likewise had a gentle way of expressing himself; and the crackle of the hearth-fire and the sound of cards slapping against the table could be heard amongst the low murmur of voices discussing the merits of fishing. So when an intruder came, the sound of footsteps against the wood flooring and of idle humming was immediately detected; and when the eyes were turned upon her, she was discovered to be none other than Miss Catherine Bennet, one of the objects of Margaret's censure in their previous conversation. Richard, feeling acutely the sense of injustice which had been directed towards this seemingly pleasant girl, if not a little frivolous and silly, instantly stood, and said very affably:

"Would you join in on our game of whist, Miss Bennet?"

Catherine, who had been wandering in and out of rooms all day, had not expected any recognition at all, and had half a mind to go downstairs where Georgiana Darcy and her sister Mary had discovered their mutual love for the pianoforte and were plodding their way through a duet; but she was also very fond of cards, and thought that joining in on this game was a sure way of becoming intimate with 'Mr. Darcy's high relations'. So she smiled and replied:

"Thank you, Colonel Fitzwilliam; I would be delighted." A chair was pulled up for her, and soon, to the displeasure of Lady Margaret, the vulgar Bennet girl was made one of their party; and was being treated with the utmost civility.

----

Caroline Bingley was one of the various guests at Pemberley, feeling obliged to go on her brother's account, and realizing the importance of maintaining a connexion with Pemberley and its proprietor, even if said proprietor was no longer on the marriage market. She had felt much initial disappointment and repugnance upon her first reception of the intelligence that her beloved Mr. Darcy was to marry Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of whom she had been consistently jealous of due to her beauty, wit and intelligence; and had taken advantage of every available opportunity to insult her. And who could blame her, what with it having been firmly established in her mind at that time that she was to be Mr. Darcy's bride, and mistress of Pemberley? But she had since somewhat reconciled herself to the idea, as there was indeed no other option, and had treated the new Mrs. Darcy with the utmost civility; and found it was quite natural to recommence her attentions to Mr. Darcy, even if she now had no eventual object in mind, other than to take advantage of his hospitality.

She now sat next to her former rival, who was engaged with a book, while Caroline idly played with one of her bracelets, encrusted with sparkling rubies. She had no wish to speak with her companion, and neither did her companion wish to speak to her; so the silence was not unwelcome. She could not help but feel that all of her hopes and attentions had been in vain, as her eyes quickly looked over the elegant, poised figure of the lady she so envied, and who had been the principal means of bringing about her dashed hopes. She was unlikely to have a suitor thrown in her path as eligible as Mr. Darcy, one of the wealthiest and most respected men in Britain; but she consoled herself that there were other fish in the sea: and ones with titles. Love had never been her object as far as matrimonial bliss was concerned, as the idea was completely foreign to her, and it had never been emphasized as important in her youth. Of course she wanted to respect her partner in life; but she bestowed her respect liberally upon those of equal or higher rank than she; this unfortunately leaving little left for those below her, but not troubling her conscience in the least.

Caroline lowered her wrist so it rested on her lap, finding that fiddling with jewelry could not occupy one's mind forever. She looked again at Mrs. Darcy, who momentarily lifted her eyes from the page she had been poring over, but without a word lowered them again. And so there was nothing left to turn her attention to but the arm of the overstuffed sofa she was sitting on, studying the pattern of the fabric and wishing she had had the sense to bring some needle-work with her. Her boredom (she thought) was happily ended, though, with the entrance of Mr. Darcy. Caroline felt a little offended when he smiled broadly at his wife, only directing a passing glance at her; and Mrs. Darcy likewise threw her book aside, and began engaging in lively conversation with her husband, who drew up a chair beside her; neither of them feeling the necessity to speak of subjects to which Caroline could relate.

Soon she began to feel that she was unwanted; and, seeing how Mr. Darcy kept eyeing her seat on the sofa as if he wished to occupy it, and not enjoying a conversation in which she played no part, Caroline abruptly stood up while Elizabeth was relating some anecdote or other, saying:

"Excuse me," and then left the room.

Neither Darcy nor Elizabeth were ever fond of Caroline Bingley: so they could not deny they were glad to be rid of her; and Darcy eagerly took the seat that lady had once occupied, though sitting considerably closer to his wife than she had, and putting an arm over her shoulder.

"What have you been reading, my dear?" he asked her, craning his neck out so that he might see the title of the book now resting beside her. Elizabeth likewise leaned out, staring at him closely, though thwarting his purpose of discovering the title.

"A novel Kitty leant me. I did not think she was a reader; however, it seems my sister is full of surprises. But I suppose you think novels are frivolous pleasures only enjoyed by ladies, hmm?"

"Indeed, I have no disdain towards novel-readers; they may not be the most scholarly diversion, but they are more entertaining by far."

Elizabeth smiled. "Now, do you truly mean that, or do you just say that to please me? I enjoy a good argument once in a while."

"I know that all too well. But have I ever lied to you, love?"

Elizabeth paused for a moment, as if contemplating all the lies that her husband had ever told her in the past.

"It is true; you have never uttered a dishonest word to me—at least, not that I am yet aware of. I do not think we ought to base our lives on lies and deceit; but also I do not think I can feel easy having your never deceived me in some way or another, as I have lied to you. Let us even the score; and I beg you will oblige me with a lie."

Darcy laughed at her reasoning, asking with a smirk:

"Dare I ask in what way you have deceived me in the past, before I comply?"

"Well—I once said to you that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry, which seems to directly contradict my present situation. Either that or I am a very desperate woman; but if _that_ was so, I would probably be lying to you every thirty seconds we speak with each other."

He laughed, squeezing her shoulder, and then replied:

"Very well: you, Elizabeth Darcy, are the most repulsive woman I have ever met."

"That had _better_ be a lie," said Elizabeth, smiling nonetheless, and then leaned in to plant a soft kiss on her husband's lips.

"Or perhaps I just have very strange taste in women," breathed Darcy, murmuring the words into Elizabeth's lips. He dodged Elizabeth's playful slap on the arm, and then unhappily prevented her from making any retort by kissing her again.

----

Sitting on a stone bench situated on Pemberley's veranda was Jane Bingley, who seemed to be disregarding the chilly weather, and who had allowed her woven shawl to fall down her arms, staring blankly into space. This was not so much absence of mind as it was her making a conscious effort to ignore her pounding headache, and found that the cold wind occasionally nipping at her brow helped to provide some relief. Due to this, she did not notice when she acquired a companion till she felt a gentle pressure on her left hand. Starting slightly and looking about her, she saw that she had been joined by her husband, who was now looking most tenderly into her eyes, and stroking her hand fondly.

"Jane, dear, what are you doing out here?" he asked kindly, now ceasing his attentions to her hand in favor of fixing her shawl by wrapping it over her shoulders.

"I have just been feeling a little ill lately, that's all; it is nothing to trouble yourself over. The cold air suited my caprice." She smiled at him earnestly and now placed her hand on his; but now a deepened sense of alarm was apparent in Bingley's eyes.

"Ill? Why did you not tell me at once? Of course, a doctor must be sent for directly. Come inside, or you will catch cold as well as whatever other illness has overcome you. I will make Darcy call up the local physician—or your sister—or whoever!" Bingley stood, anxiously taking his wife's arm, and they walked inside.

"Whatever will give you repose of mind; though I assure you it is unnecessary," comforted Jane, who was now being lead into the guest parlor, where a warm fire was burning as in every other room on the cold day. Bingley only let go of his wife's arm to pull up a chair for her close to the fire, then giving her a kiss on the cheek as he begged her to have a seat. He seemed to be attempting to suppress some of his anxiety with deliberately smooth movements, but when Jane watched him nearly sprint out of the room, she knew all-too-well that he was distressing himself on her account.

She was sorry to cause what she believed to be needless alarm in the household, but was nonetheless comforted that Bingley was as concerned and loving a husband as he was a suitor. She folded her hands on her lap, smiling serenely despite her still-throbbing headache and stared into the fire, now beginning to regain feeling in her nose and ears. It seemed but thirty seconds before Bingley had returned, accompanied with his sister-in-law Elizabeth; and as Jane turned about to face them, she supposed he had greatly exaggerated her predicament judging by the worried expression on her sister's face.

"Jane? What is the matter? Bingley here is so distressed," said Elizabeth, gesturing to Bingley, who was indeed very distressed, and was eyeing his wife fixedly.

"Nothing of consequence, I am sure—" began Jane, who was cut off by her adoring husband.

"No, my dear, I insist that you see a doctor; for how can you know if it is nothing of consequence otherwise?"

Jane smiled.

"Very well, then. I cannot possibly protest it any longer if everybody else insists upon it."

Elizabeth squeezed her sister's hand, not entirely convinced that it was nothing either, as Jane was wont to downplay her symptoms of illness; and it indeed seemed the only thing that could give Bingley relief; so the local physician was soon afterwards called for, though Jane insisted the whole time that the matter was not worth their anxiety.


	8. Temptation

**Chapter Seven: Temptation**

"_The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful."_

—_O. Wilde, "The Picture of Dorian Grey"_

Miss Raven, a woman in her early thirties, who, if not possessing the appearance of youth, at least had a mind of such. She pored over a letter, dated about five years past, the nostalgia coming over her in waves as she indulged in what she considered to be an idle pleasure. Then, she put it down abruptly, refolding the aged paper, and placed it atop a pile of letters of a similar date and writer; then binding them together with a silk ribbon. Into the small chest they went, the lock faintly clicking as its lid was shut, and everything put exactly as it was before. It was a handsome room in which she sat, with a large four-poster bed in the center with the curtains drawn, and cream-colored paneled walls. Lightly did Miss Raven step to the room's exit, tentatively cracking the door open so she might peer out into the wide corridor beyond; chocolate-colored eyes darting back and forth, and then, when it was determined that no one but herself was about, opened the door just enough that she might step out. And she did step out, her foot making a gentle tapping sound as it touched the marble floor; and then the door was closed, and she was taking measured steps towards the back entrance, only stopping to fetch her cloak and throw it over her.

What could be her possible motive for walking about in this discreet manner, throwing herself into the cold December climate, when she was needed elsewhere? She would never tell. Once she determined she was out of sight of anyone who may have been unluckily peering out of a window, she quickened her pace, scurrying along as she skirted the vast wood. She could see the road faintly in the distance, but had no desire to be any nearer to it; and, breathless, after some considerable period of time, she was approaching a country cottage, the thatched roof thinly covered with snow, though it had melted elsewhere; and eagerly she rapped on the door. She pressed her ear to the door, hearing footsteps from within; and then, pulling away when she heard them growing louder, poised herself as well as she could in her flurry of emotion as the door was pulled open.

It was answered by an elderly woman, grave in her dark-colored servant's clothes, and studying with her severe eyes her unexpected guest. _Undoubtedly the housekeeper_, thought Miss Raven as she smiled uneasily at the woman on the other side of the threshold.

"Your name and your business, madam?" said the supposed housekeeper, apparently annoyed that Miss Raven had not thought of explaining this at once, and that five seconds of her time had been wasted in looking the unremarkable woman up and down. Miss Raven tried to sound nonchalant.

"Ah! I am come to see a Miss Edith—she resides here, does she not?"

The servant replied that she did, though still eyeing Miss Raven severely, and not making any motions to allow her to enter. "I will ascertain if she is at home if you will but give me your name."

Miss Raven hesitated, her eyes nervously darting about as she had done previously; and then, as if with sudden recollection, blurted out: "Miss Samantha Hawkins. She will not know me—but pray, let me see her."

"To what purpose does this visit tend?" interrogated the skeptical housekeeper, her stony expression never betraying any emotion other than irritation. Miss Raven smiled again, more out of nervousness than as an attempt to soothe her adversary.

"A social call; and nothing more."

Reluctantly did the housekeeper allow the visitor in, before leading her to the drawing-room where she was asked to take a seat while she sought the wanted Miss Edith. "Who pays social calls to eight-year-olds?" murmured Mrs. Edwin to herself as she ascended the staircase.

----

The local physician bid cordial adieux to Mr. Bingley and Elizabeth, the former who had thought it necessary to anxiously pace the hall while the good doctor conducted his examination, and the latter thinking it would be best that she accompany him in order to soothe his sometimes wild conjectures, and also wanting to be one of the first to be made privy to her elder sister's condition. The happy countenance of the doctor, however, likewise gave ease to Jane's vexed relations; and soon Jane herself emerged, looking the picture of health, and even with an additional glow to her rosy complexion. Bingley, however, was not disposed to think so favorably of her altered appearance, attributing it to a high fever.

"My dear, you should lie down for a little," he added with husbandly solicitude. Jane only laughed.

"Indeed, it is not necessary." Then, turning to her sister, said, "Lizzy, may I speak with you for a moment in private?"

Elizabeth was more than happily to oblige her sister, though she was surprised that there was something which Jane wished to tell her that her husband could not hear; but Bingley was not one to be jealous, and was not going to oppose anything which would please his wife, and which did not seem to be jeopardizing her health. So Jane took her sister's hand, and lead her into the private sitting-room in her guest chambers, which was decorated in light colors of blue and gold; and the two sisters sat together on the nearest sofa, now holding both of each other's hands.

"Is it more serious than you and the doctor have painted it to be?" asked Elizabeth immediately, not allowing herself to hope for anything less than the worst; but Jane only smiled, though a little more nervously than she had previously.

"No," assured Jane; "I had suspected it for several days now—only—I did not want to say anything till I knew for certain; and the doctor, you see, has just confirmed my suspicions. I wanted to tell you and Charles yesterday, only…"

"My dear sister, I will not hold it against you; but I beg that you will tell me what it is that ails you."

Jane drew in a deep breath, gathering her courage, and then said:

"I am with child."

Elizabeth's expression immediately changed from one of concern and worry to one of delight. She threw her arms around her sister, the violent embrace unexpected but not unwelcome to Jane, as she returned the hug. Then, pulling away from it, Elizabeth said with a bright smile:

"I am so happy for you. And here you have worked your poor husband and me into quite a fit of apprehension."

"Oh!" cried Jane sadly; "I am sorry to have occasioned you any pain on my behalf; it was not my intention to build this suspense. Only, I did not know how to tell you. But now that I have told you, my dear Lizzy, I feel confident I can tell my husband. Poor dear! I cannot bear to think that he has been thinking I have fallen mortally ill. Would you be so kind to bring him here?—I will tell him myself."

Elizabeth was only too glad to fetch Bingley for her sister, who was still pacing in the corridor and looking anxious and uneasy. She smiled broadly at him in an attempt to assure him that all was well, and begged him to go inside as Jane wished to speak with him—a request which he agreed to immediately; and she did not so much beg as merely begin to suggest it, and he was gone. Happily, Jane's courage didn't fail her, and Bingley, upon learning that her ailment was something much more delightful than he had anticipated, became much less fretful and much more sensible.

----

Catherine and Mary, whose heads were both filled with their own thoughts, sat beside each other on the settee; the former with her hand holding up her chin as she gazed out the frosted window, the latter sifting through a pile of Miss Darcy's sheet music for something of interest. Catherine was tempted to seek out Colonel Fitzwilliam, whose company she found to be much more agreeable than his appearance suggested, and who could play a mean game of whist; but in the end, her laziness prevailed, and she did no more than shift about in her seat.

"Will you stop that, Kitty?" asked Mary sharply, replacing one of the sheets on the table in front of her.

"Stop what?" she replied confusedly, twisting around so that she was facing her elder sister.

"Wiggling around—I can't concentrate with the racket you make."

Catherine made no reply, but only glared at Mary before resuming her former pose. Mary sighed, feeling that it was an unfortunate day that she was cursed with a younger sister who cared only for pretty dresses and dancing with officers. At least Lydia was married, and far away in Newcastle! Catherine, however, continued shifting about unconsciously, much to Mary's chagrin; and so after a few more minutes, she stood up with a piqued sigh, cradling her music, and stalked off to the armchair on the other side of the room. This prompted Catherine to stand up herself, and she left the room, slightly annoyed.

She was walking down the broad corridor, her head flitting from side to side as she mindlessly walked past closed doors and little elegant wall-hangings, when she suddenly came to an abrupt stop. She had nearly run into two ladies, who had now ceased their conversation and were examining Catherine with some alarm; and once Catherine was at leisure to identify them, she saw, much to her own mortification, that it was Lady Rosaline and Miss Bingley. _Miss Bingley, such a fine lady—and Lady Rosaline more so!_ She curtseyed very low to them, and quickly apologized for her thoughtlessness.

While Caroline was only somewhat mollified by this hasty but earnest apology, Rosaline was rather happy that the interruption had occurred; for she had had the misfortune of meeting with Miss Bingley, who was feeling dejected and bored, and Rosaline had quickly become the object of her rants and raves. She wished to formulate some sort of excuse to leave, but she was no good at such things, and at the same time reproached herself for wanting to employ any such pretence. She only vaguely recalled that the younger girl before her was one of the Miss Bennets; and so, exerting herself, Rosaline said before Catherine had a chance to disappear:

"You are Miss Bennet, are you not?"

"Yes, your ladyship," said Catherine nervously, feeling very much intimidated by Caroline Bingley's critical looks and the fact that Rosaline was an earl's daughter. "Though my sister Mary is the elder of us two." Catherine reflected it was very strange for there now being only two Miss Bennets, instead of five.

Rosaline nodded, while Caroline was annoyed that the inconsequential Catherine was lingering. It was true that she was feeling dejected in that she was being mostly ignored by Mr. Darcy and his new wife, but not so much so that she would condescend to make conversation with a vulgar Miss Bennet; especially not when there were Fitzwilliams about. But at the same time she was not about to contradict the illustrious Lady Rosaline, so she merely bit her lip and made a conscious effort to look unpleasant in hopes that she could communicate her message tacitly.

"Yes, I remember now," said Rosaline, trailing off into silence as she thought in vain for something else to say. Catherine bashfully averted her eyes from that of the fine lady's. _Mr. Mulligan is certainly much braver than I am_, she thought somewhat regretfully, remembering how he had stared at her. She was pretty to be sure…

"Your ladyship, shall we retire to the blue parlor? I can play for you the sonata that I was speaking of," said Caroline, interrupting her two companions' musings, and taking Rosaline's arm rather forcefully. Rosaline bore her sufferings in silence as she always did, and Catherine quickly slipped around the others, almost glad that it was Christmas Eve, and that she might soon not be obliged to awkward conversations with ladies whose existences she thought were worth about five of her own.

----

Once she had shut the door to allow the mysterious Miss Hawkins her tête-à-tête with Edith, Mrs. Edwin stood fixedly in the hall, like a chiseled stone statue. She was suspicious of the visitor; her mannerisms had not suggested one who came with pure intent; and she regretted that Mr. Mulligan was off tending to his duties, and had not been able to examine the stranger himself. But still, she was only the housekeeper, and not the mistress; so it was all she could do to stand by the door, even if it earned her strange glances and questioning from Miss Brendan and Alice. When the door was opened, and the heavy-set lady trudged out, she exhaled a deep breath, as if she had been holding it the whole time; then wordlessly held the door for the visitor, who looked very cheery indeed as she stepped out; though as soon as her skirts were a centimeter from the threshold, the door was closed very decidedly behind her. Mrs. Edwin immediately went to the drawing-room, where she planned to extract all of the information of the unwonted interview from Edith.

She found Edith sitting on the sofa, looking if not alarmed at least very puzzled, and who felt that she possibly knew just as little as the housekeeper.

"Edith," said Mrs. Edwin seriously, "what did that—Miss Hawkins—say to you?"

Edith looked the severe old housekeeper in the eye, again with that 'challenging' gaze, and stared steadily for several moments before saying in a voice surprisingly childish:

"But Mrs. Edwin, ought I to tell you?"

"Ought you to tell me?—why, child, you must tell me!" spat Mrs. Edwin.

Edith stood up, recognizing her advantage in the situation, even if she knew not the motives behind it. Mrs. Edwin was at her mercy; and she was not fool enough to give her what she wanted for a mere nothing.

"Why must I tell you? For you are a servant, and I am your master's charge."

"It is for your own well-being, Edith! If you care for yourself, you will tell me!"

Edith, however, was not convinced.

"Indeed, and so you also tell me when I cannot have sweets—but I do not think that is a very pleasant thing. No, Mrs. Edwin, I do not think I ought to tell you what Miss Hawkins had to say. It is my secret."

Edith was very pleased with herself, and even allowed herself a small smile as she observed Mrs. Edwin's clearly exasperated expression. She could not possibly realize if there was any gravity in the stranger's words; but if there was, Edith was not about to lay it open for debate unless she was made some sort of offering in exchange for it.

"I have my studies, and you have your duties, Mrs. Edwin," were Edith's nonchalant parting words as she skipped out of the room, deciding that studying might not be such a disagreeable thing if Mrs. Edwin was, for once, under her command.


	9. Secrets Untold

**Chapter Eight: Secrets Untold**

_Heap on more wood! – the wind is chill;  
But let it whistle as it will,  
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.  
Each age has deem'd the new-born year  
The fittest time for festal cheer:  
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane  
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;  
High on the beach his galleys drew,  
And feasted all his pirate crew_

—_Sir W. Scott, "Marmion, a Christmas poem"_

At last it was the twenty-fifth of December, and the party at Pemberley had assembled at the nearby chapel for Christmas service. Afterwards there was to be a feast at Pemberley, and as Elizabeth sat next to her husband in one of the pews she felt very apprehensive. It was true, all of these people she had been hostess of for some time now; but this was the most important aspect; this was what would give her guests a lasting impression in their minds whether she was worthy or unworthy to be mistress of Pemberley. She found it hard to be attentive to Mr. Mulligan's sermon while through her mind ran thoughts of roasted ham, table arrangements, and silverware. Darcy looked down at her, her expression indiscernible as it was hidden by the brim of her straw bonnet; but he saw how she fidgeted and twiddled her thumbs. Discreetly he grabbed her hand tightly, interlacing their fingers and pulling her towards him. She looked up with a small, reassuring smile, which he returned, though he knew was not betraying her true feelings.

Catherine was sitting with her family, namely her sister Mary. Catherine was not fain to listen to the sermonizing of clergymen, thinking that church was a very good time for some self-reflection (which could be better known as daydreaming). However, she felt somewhat duty-bound to pay attention to-day, considering herself a friend of the parson. Mary, of course, was mentally recording every word, so that she might bring up her favorite aspects of it later to her family; not that her family ever joined in on the discussion—it was more for her own satisfaction of knowing that while she paid attention, others did not.

A little away from Catherine and Mary in the little, quaint country chapel were the Fitzwilliams. Rosaline was attempting to uphold her composure, in spite of the frequent glares she received from that critical eye whose mere presence made her want to shrink away into the stone floor. She could not bring herself to make eye contact with him; the service could not end too soon for her liking.

But it did end; much too soon for Elizabeth and much too late for Rosaline. As the merry crowd poured out of the doors (Catherine finding Edith and having a short, inconsequential conversation with her), the carriages were all waiting along the lane to convey the guests of Pemberley back to that house. Darcy had handed his wife into the carriage, and the crowd had greatly dissipated when he was about to step in; but then he saw his cousin Rosaline leaning against the outside wall of the chapel, and quite alone; so pointing this out to Elizabeth, he then went to her.

"Rosy? Your carriage has left; should you like to ride with me and my wife?"

Rosaline looked up at the unexpected intruder to her thoughts, starting a little; but then said hastily:

"No, no! I stay here on purpose, as I mean to walk. It is not so far."

Darcy did not think this behavior very abnormal, as he was well-acquainted with Rosaline's love for country walks, and was also used to receiving such speeches from his wife, who shared this pursuit.

"True; but may I not come with you?—and perhaps Elizabeth? She is very fond of walking."

Rosaline fidgeted uncomfortably. "You may come, if you insist—but please, don't bring her," she replied, gesturing to the carriage in which Elizabeth sat. Then she realized that may have sounded impertinent, and added: "I mean, because we know each other so much better, and it may be awkward with a third person. And Mrs. Darcy—she will want to arrive early to oversee the meal preparations."

Darcy was convinced by this second point more so than the former, and nodded his head in agreement. He then went back to Elizabeth, telling her to drive on without him, as he was to have a tête-à-tête walk with his cousin. Elizabeth did not mind this, as she reflected that she might have as easily requested something similar of her husband if that was Jane who was standing alone outside the carriage, rather than Rosaline. So she went on, leaving Rosaline and Darcy to walk back to Pemberley at their leisure.

The dramatic Derbyshire landscape looked very fine this Christmas morning, melted frost dripping from the bare tree-branches. The colors were generally subdued, and the skies with a thin cloud cover; but the bright red of holly-berries provided a contrast, as well as Rosaline's Turkey red scarf wrapt tightly about her. Darcy offered his arm to Rosaline, who accepted, and they walked in this way down the lane for some minutes in silence.

"Are you going to Rosings for Easter?" asked Darcy abruptly, though choking on the name of that estate that he would no longer be received at.

"You must think me very disloyal," said Rosaline after a short pause, "if you should think I would humor Aunt Catherine with my company after the way she treated you. I have learnt of your quarrels; for she wrote to me regularly; and I am sorry to say it has been the talk of the Fitzwilliam family for some time now."

"The Fitzwilliams never could keep secrets, could they?" Darcy smiled.

"They can keep secrets from the rest of the world; just not from each other."

"I shall keep that fact in mind, the next time that I have something I wish to conceal—that it will only be a matter of time before the family knows all."

Rosaline looked a little uneasy as he said this; but Darcy, who did not detect it, continued on:

"But I had another motive to asking if you were to go to Rosings at Easter, than to test your loyalty to me. I thought you might like to come to Pemberley at that time."

"Have you discussed this with your wife?" asked Rosaline cautiously.

"Of course."

"Will you not be tired of me? I dare say you will quite dread holidays."

"Tired of you!—Rosy, you forget that you have been gone these ten years past. You must forgive me for a little selfishness on my part, if it seems that I am determined to have you all to myself," said Darcy with a laugh.

"I do not think you could ever achieve that," said Rosaline quietly, so that Darcy only heard every other word; but then, making a conscious effort to seem jollier: "I should, however, very much like to come to Pemberley for Easter. It will give me an excuse to decline Aunt Catherine's invitation, which will undoubtedly come. I assure you, I had quite enough of those Easters when I was a girl, and they were enough to last me a lifetime."

Silence then descended over the pair once more; Darcy occupying himself with studying the landscape, and thinking of his poor Elizabeth unnecessarily vexing herself over Christmas dinner, when he had every faith in her that it would be capital; while Rosaline contemplated the motives behind her affirmative answer to her cousin's request she come for Easter. She could think of a thousand reasons why she ought not to come; but somehow the pros, if few and far between, outweighed them.

----

Rosaline had gone up to her guest chambers to dress for dinner. She studied her image in the looking-glass, as our slight acquaintance Miss Raven tugged and pulled at her flaxen curls so that they fell into an elegant Grecian coiffeur. Miss Raven was happily gossiping to her mistress as she did so, her complexion its usual ruddy color, and her incessant small-talk nothing out of the ordinary. Rosaline listened to none of it; and the first words she spoke sounded grave enough to inform Miss Raven immediately that her thoughts had been far away from the misadventures of one of the chambermaids.

"Augusta," she said.

"Yes, milady?"

"Did you hear anything else—of a different nature?"

Miss Raven looked puzzled, and probably not unjustly so.

"I beg your pardon, milady; but I do not think I understand your meaning."

Rosaline paused. "Never mind—it was nothing of consequence."

Miss Raven then continued dressing her ladyship in silence, as she took Rosaline's words and contorted them in her mind in order to suit her own thoughts and suspicions. And when every ribbon had been tied and every clasp done, Rosaline went off to dinner, and both lady's-maid and lady were left to ponder only upon what they knew themselves.

----

The feast was a grand affair, as everyone had expected of a house such as Pemberley. There were meats of all seasonings and flavors, and courses upon courses, till everyone was unsure if they would be able to eat anymore. The pastries were excellently made by their French cook, looking more like a piece of artwork than a sweet. All the while good-humored chatter and the clamor of forks and knives filled the large dining-room. Elizabeth related anecdotes to Lady Margaret, even if the latter afterwards remained obstinate in her claim that Mrs. Darcy was not as charming as Richard said; and when Elizabeth was not occupying herself with her new cousin, she was speaking with Jane across from her of married life. Catherine was rather quieter than usual, though; for she was self-conscious of having Colonel Fitzwilliam to her left, and Miss Darcy to her right. It was not that she was afraid of her sister-in-law, but that her sister-in-law was afraid of her; and Colonel Fitzwilliam was maintaining a charming discourse with Mr. Gibson; and Catherine was too intimidated by the latter to dare join in on the conversation. Caroline had been unfortunate enough to take longer in her dressing than the others, and therefore had somehow been placed (much to her chagrin) among the Gardiners and their several children. One little girl in particular was guileless, and kept asking Caroline tedious questions about this or that. Mary, too, sat by her Aunt Gardiner and her mother, which was rather a disappointment, as she had no opportunity to speak intelligently and eloquently in order to wow an unsuspecting audience.

"How well my Lizzy looks this evening," chirruped Mrs. Bennet to Mary, gazing down the other end of the table at her daughter, who had her raven hair arranged in a wreath of curls, and wore a satin gown. Mary made no reply, but instead became especially attentive to her food, chopping it into fine little pieces.

"Do not you think your sister has done a splendid job?" continued Mrs. Bennet, still hoping to force a reply from her daughter. There was no real motive for this insistence, other than a desire to brag of her children's accomplishments to anybody who would listen, even if that person was another of her children; but Mary was certain it was because her mother was insinuating, 'these are the standards I have set for you, and now you must live up to them; take notice of your sister's superiority, and use it as a guide to improve yourself, for you are worthless.' She clenched her teeth, and said to pacify her mother:

"Very splendid, Mamma."

"Dear Lizzy! I always knew she would make something of herself. Look at that pretty little arrangement in the center of the table over there. And I was so flattered when she asked my opinion of what colors to do her sitting-room in. I told her, 'cream with blue ornaments', and I dare say she will take my suggestion very seriously—to think my suggestion should be applied in such a house as this! Mr. Bennet (now turning to her husband across from her), don't you think we ought to redo our drawing-room in cream with blue ornaments? It sorely needs remodeling."

Mr. Bennet looked up, as if surprised that he had been applied to, and said: "My dear, I do not know why you ask me such things, for you will do as you please regardless of what I say."

"Nonsense! I take great care for your opinions. What think you of those colors?"

With a sigh, Mr. Bennet said: "I should prefer green, instead of blue."

"Green! Oh dear, that would not do at all; for the dining-room and your book-room is green; it would be too much green. No, I think blue would do much better; I think you will agree once you see what I mean."

"I must trust to your superior feminine sensibilities," replied Mr. Bennet wearily, and then raised an eyebrow at Mary. Mary could only smile in turn, as she was well acquainted with her mother's frequent but unintentional hypocrisy.

On the other side of the table, Catherine had just set down her wine-glass after taking a long draught, listening to but not looking at Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Gibson. She was slightly startled when the former addressed her:

"Did I hear correctly, Miss Catherine that you play and sing?"

"No!" responded Catherine quickly, "That would be my sister Mary. I am afraid that I have few talents, unless you consider being able to talk incomprehensibly a talent."

Her attempt at humor didn't really have any suitable response, so Colonel Fitzwilliam just smiled and said:

"Indeed, it may be; but Mr. Gibson and I were just speaking of pianofortes, as he is looking to purchase one for my sister Margaret; and seemed to think you might be knowledgeable on the subject."

Catherine was flattered by the Colonel's wanting to include her in the conversation, though the recap was superfluous since she had been attentive to it all along; but she felt rather embarrassed of her ignorance.

"I am afraid I know nothing of it; but I refer you to my sister Mary; undoubtedly she is your best resource when it comes to instruments."

Then Catherine turned away and made some idle remark to Miss Darcy about the arrangements, to which she received a simple 'yes'; and with her being unable to relate to the gentlemen and unable to procure anything of substance from Georgiana, she feared she might not have anything to say for the rest of the feast.

----

After dinner had ended and everyone had retired, Elizabeth was lounging on the window-seat in her sitting-room and staring out the window into the night. She felt very tired from the day's festivities, and as she sleepily pawed at the window, she felt that she could fall asleep just as she was.

"You're going to freeze by the window, love," reprimanded Darcy softly, who was sitting by the blazing hearth-fire. Elizabeth knew that he was right, so she muttered something incoherently and then made her way over to the settee.

"I'm so tired," she stated, though that was pretty obvious due to her countenance. She flopped down onto the settee, next to her husband.

"Poor Lizzy; but now you have proven yourself to us all that you are a very capable hostess." He patted her arm affectionately.

"What?" said Elizabeth with a little more animation than formerly, with mock indignation; "I needed to 'prove myself' to you?"

Darcy perhaps took this a little more seriously than it was intended, and replied soothingly; "Not to _me_; I had the utmost faith in you."

"Oh dear," she said with a change in tone; "to have the utmost faith in me without any cause? I am afraid that was very insensible of you; I wish I had known this before; as I never dreamt of my marrying an insensible man."

Darcy paused. "I am not going to be able to win in this conversation, am I?"

Elizabeth smiled. "No, you're not." She slumped against his arm, and at length, murmured:

"I'm tired."

"You already said that," pointed out Darcy, kissing the top of her head.

"To think you've been outwitted by someone who can't remember what she said two minutes ago: for shame, Fitzwilliam."


	10. Preparing to Part

**Chapter Nine: Preparing to Part**

_Who never wanted, — maddest joy  
Remains to him unknown:  
The banquet of abstemiousness  
Surpasses that of wine._

—_E. Dickinson, "Desire"_

Edith studied the glossy ivory keys of the piano carefully, as if she were to write a report on its condition afterwards. Her index finger floated over the keys and at last rested on middle "C", and she clumsily played the note, the bright timbre of the instrument echoing through the drawing-room. Then she took her left hand and placed it on the piano; and she was at last to commence her practicing, when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Fearing it might be Miss Brendan coming to check her progress, Edith jumped right into the song, fumbling through wrong chords and rhythms; and then when the door opened, she turned round and saw that it was Mrs. Edwin. Edith smiled at her prettily, but the façade was thin enough that the housekeeper saw through it.

"Edith," said Mrs. Edwin sharply, "have you gone into the village lately?"

"No," was the response, Edith mimicking her elder's tone; "Why do you ask such a question?"

Mrs. Edwin crossed her arms and looked very stern. "Because I do not think it wise for you to do so: you must keep away from there for a while."

Edith scowled, and stood up from the piano-stool. She did not understand why she could not go into Lambton if she so chose; and her inclination to do so only rose with Mrs. Edwin's advising her against it. After a pause, she replied:

"You can't tell me what I can and cannot do, Mrs. Edwin. I will go to the village if I like."

"Edith!" cried the housekeeper reproachfully; "I do not think it is safe, what with strange ladies calling on you and making you their confidante." She was, of course, referring to 'Miss Hawkins', and hoped that by using such measures she could at last extract the truth from the obstinate little girl. Edith now saw the subject which lingered foremost in the housekeeper's mind, and was not displeased with the realization.

"Well, my being shut up in this house will not stop them, will it?"

"Child, I beg you will tell me what she said! You do not understand how you harm yourself by keeping it secret."

Edith made no reply, but reseated herself on the piano-stool, as if she was fully prepared to ignore whatever chastising Mrs. Edwin had up her sleeve. Mrs. Edwin ground her teeth, not so much upset by the girl's refusal in light of it placing her in danger, but more that she could not bear her own unsatisfied curiosity; her desire to know. She knew she could not very well ban her master's charge from going into the town; but then another idea presented itself, in the form of a bribe.

"I dare say I could get that pearl-grey silk dress made for you; I find that I have time enough in the evenings that I could dedicate to its construction. But, I do not think I could manage it till you have told me of Miss Hawkins' visit in detail, for I could not in good conscience reward a naughty girl."

Edith now looked attentive to Mrs. Edwin; _now_ she was speaking her language.

"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Edwin; but you know, I should not like to betray my confidences. That would be very naughty indeed."

"It would not be so naughty, if it was for your own good; and surely Miss Hawkins did not mean that you could not tell the poor old housekeeper who has taken care of you since you were very young; nearly a babe. On the contrary, it would be a very good thing. And if you were very good, I also might be able to re-trim the new bonnet you bought last week."

Edith was positively beaming now, as she reaped the benefits of the influence she held over Mrs. Edwin. The prospect of a re-trimmed bonnet and a new silk frock was very enticing; but she found she liked the high of seeing Mrs. Edwin in a state of almost desperation better.

"I will consider it, _dear_ Mrs. Edwin. But I had better practice, and Simon will be lunching with me very soon, once he returns from the Applewhites'."

So Edith recommenced plugging at her songs and scales, and Mrs. Edwin was obliged to leave the room, and still with a deep curiosity unfulfilled.

----

The visitors at Pemberley were to leave shortly after the beginning of the New Year; and now the Bennet family's return to Hertfordshire was imminent. Catherine was disappointed that, though she had opportunity to dine at the estate of an elderly bachelor once, most of the time was spent at Pemberley, and among its inmates. Apparently it was felt that entertaining them was enough of a burden for the Darcys, so no more dinners or luncheons were held; and though there was the occasional caller, none among them was Mr. Mulligan or Edith; and this was what was chiefly disappointing to Catherine. She fancied she was as thick as thieves with them, their acquaintance being as slight as it was; but now that only a few days remained of her stay in Derbyshire that winter, she felt the inclination to call at the Kympton parsonage again.

She was in Lambton with Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy, and Lady Rosaline, as they visited some of the local shops. It seemed an odd party enough; but it came about by Darcy's desire for his wife to become better acquainted with his favorite cousin; and Catherine had happened to be in the same room at that time, therefore the invitation was extended to her out of common courtesy. It was eagerly accepted, for she had not been into Lambton very many times during her stay, and nothing pleased her better than a shopping expedition. And her initial wish of having new things was also satisfied, for Elizabeth had bought her a new bonnet, and a ready-made dress which fitted Catherine as well as ready-made dresses could. So she was very cheerful, and had even forgotten to be afraid of her ladyship as they spent their money.

"Oh! Look at that ribbon!" cried Catherine wistfully as they passed by the ribbon shop, and she peered into the window. "I have never seen such an exquisite shade of gold. Why, it almost glitters!"

Interestingly it was Rosaline who took heed of this exclamation, for she was feeling a bit put out by how attentive Darcy was being to his wife (though he could hardly be blamed for being so) and admired alongside Catherine with almost a childish fascination.

"It is much finer than the gold ribbon I have," remarked Rosaline.

"And I would buy it, only I have not a farthing," sighed Catherine. Then the two ladies turned around, only to be arrested by the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy chatting with Mr. Mulligan and Edith. Catherine was delighted at so convenient a meeting; Rosaline was not.

Catherine went over to them, so there was nothing left to do but for her companion to follow; and she greeted them with cheery alacrity. Then Mr. Mulligan was obliged to turn to Rosaline, whereupon his smile faded into almost a scowl, and he bowed gravely to her ladyship.

"I am so glad to see you," addressed Catherine, taking note of the parson's altered countenance once he discovered Lady Rosaline was present, but not choosing for such to be reflected in _her_ expression: "I was going to call on you while I was in town; but see how things work out much to our advantage!"

Before Simon could retract his gaze from her ladyship, Edith put in:

"What were you looking at over there?" She gestured to the ribbon shop.

"The finest gold ribbon," said Catherine; then studying little Edith more closely, added: "It would suit your complexion very well, I think; for gold never quite looks well on me." She glanced at Lady Rosaline, and then at Mr. Mulligan, and continued, still addressing Edith: "And it would likewise wear well on Lady Rosaline. You have the same coloring of the skin, you know."

Rosaline caught this remark, and immediately retreated behind Darcy, as if she were a frightened child. Catherine colored in embarrassment, fearing that she had been too untoward; for she had been very giddy, and had forgotten to show her usual amount of reserve and awe towards her ladyship. Catherine looked down at her gloved hands, and paid no attention to the conversation, till she was suddenly addressed by Mr. Mulligan:

"Miss Bennet, you have made yourself quite a stranger this past week."

She looked up. "I'm very sorry for it, if I have! But as I said before, I meant to call while I was in the village to-day."

"Do you return to Hertfordshire soon?"

"Yes; in two days' time."

"So soon!" cried Edith with a frown, who had somewhat attached herself to the pretty Miss Bennet, though she knew her but little. "You can still come back with us. You haven't even heard the newest song that I learnt."

This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; it was agreeable to Catherine, and Elizabeth could find no objection to it, for she thought with satisfaction that her sister should want to make friends with a sensible man such as Mr. Mulligan, rather than be begging for a ball or the acquaintance of officers. The chaise would come to conduct her back to Pemberley, and she would be back in time to dine with her family. All the while Rosaline was looking about her anxiously, as if she wished to find some reason to excuse herself; and once all of the arrangements were sorted out, Rosaline was the first to lead the way to some other shop, while Catherine remained with Mr. Mulligan and Edith.

The former stood still for several moments, his eyes fixed on the departing party with a cloudy expression; but was startled out of his trance by Catherine saying:

"Well, shall we head to the parsonage?"

He nodded his head and they began to walk down the lane the opposite way that the Darcys and Lady Rosaline had gone, Catherine taking Mr. Mulligan's proffered arm, and Edith bouncing along beside her friend happily.

"It is a very warm day for January," remarked Catherine as the shops that marked the center of town dissipated, giving way to modest country cottages with their thatched roofs, tan stones, and wilted little gardens. This was met with murmurs of acquiescence, and other little comments on the weather; and then Edith began to speak of everything she had done since she had last seen Catherine at church, and this constant flow of conversation helped to lift the uneasiness that had settled over their small party.

When they at last reached Kympton Parsonage, Edith was eager to display her talents to Catherine, while the latter and Mr. Mulligan kept up small talk that had dominated the conversation walking to there. When Edith had played to her heart's content, she received some gratifying applause from her audience; and then she sat down next to Catherine, smiling and content. Catherine, however, had had a question that had been tugging at her mind for some time now; and so before she quite knew what she was saying, she had asked Mr. Mulligan:

"Were you acquainted with Lady Rosaline previously?—I mean, before Christmastide."

The addressed looked startled and slightly taken aback by the question; and there was a flicker of anger in his eyes: and Catherine was beginning to relent asking at all, recalling how easily he had been offended formerly. So she said nothing, and was quite ready to accept no answer; but after what seemed a longer pause than it actually was, he said:

"Yes."

Catherine nodded slightly, in order to gesture her willingness to drop the subject. So Mr. Mulligan segued into some other subject which they could all discuss with indifference, and Catherine happily contributed to it without ever alluding to the taboo subject of Lady Rosaline again, though she was to think of it for some time afterwards, conjecturing as to why there was such an uneasiness between the two; and every supposition always led back to one principle subject.

After three quarters of an hour, they could hear the sound of the carriage stopping in the lane; and Catherine bid her final adieux to the Mulligan household, promising to write to Edith, as she was not to see them again before she returned to Hertfordshire.

"But I shall come back again, hopefully very soon," she added somewhat cheerfully as she shook hands with Edith and Mr. Mulligan. Edith smiled widely at this hope of renewing their acquaintance. Edith showed her to the gate, and Mr. Mulligan handed her into the carriage; and with one final look back at her new friends, she was going down the lane, with the disappearing silhouettes of Mr. Mulligan and a waving Edith set off by the sun inching closer to the horizon. Then she turned round, and thought of packing and journeying and returning to the dreary place that was Longbourn.

Once the carriage bearing Pemberley's livery had gone down the hill and was out of sight, Edith and Simon turned back, walking up the gravel footpath to the parsonage house.

"I like Miss Bennet very much. I shall miss her sorely while she is gone home in something-shire," remarked Edith.

"So shall I," said Simon with a sad smile which Edith was not at leisure to observe, and then they re-entered the house.


	11. Separation, and its Sentiments

_I know that it's been nearly forever since I've updated; and I have no excuse, except that I was on vacation for a while, and have been supremely lazy. No promises as to how regular my updates will be; but I don't mean to abandon this story._

**Chapter Ten: Separation, and its Sentiments**

_Yet thou, of sighs and silly tears regardless,_  
_Suff'rest my feeble heart to pine with anguish,_  
_Whilst all my barren hopes return rewardless,_  
_My bitter days do waste, and I do languish._

—_J. Wilbye, "Oft have I vowed…"_

The two days which remained of Catherine's stay in Derbyshire came and went quickly; the latter day spent mainly in packing and contemplating plans for the return journey to Longbourn. By the time that the carriage had pulled up the gravel drive, and she was standing on the veranda with her bonnet and cloak securely fastened about her, she was feeling already exhausted; and with a fond embrace for her sisters Jane and Elizabeth, she joined the rest of her family (the 'rest of her family' being her father, mother and Mary), alighted into the carriage, and within a few moments was off.

Elizabeth was, despite her natural feelings of sisterly solicitude, rather glad to have the large party which had been assembled at Pemberley dissipating. She very much wanted to have the house left only to herself, her husband, and her sister-in-law; for her intimacy with the latter was difficult to build upon with all of the guests standing in the way, and her marriage had been recent enough that she may still be considered a newlywed. Mr. and Mrs. Bingley were to leave on the morrow, with especial arrangements made for Jane's comfort due to her condition. Miss Bingley and the Hursts had set off for Town the previous day, as had the Gardiners and their children; and the carriage now pulled up to convey Colonel Fitzwilliam, Lady Margaret and her husband back to the latter's country estate in Leicestershire: so all who would remain at Pemberley after the next day's end was Lady Rosaline, who was to go to her eldest brother's house in town a few days following the described period.

After the Bennets, Gibsons and Colonel Fitzwilliam were gone, what of the Christmas party remained re-entered the house. The two married couples naturally went off in their way for privacy and lovers' banter, which left Georgiana and Rosaline left together in the ground-floor guest parlor.

Georgiana had seated herself by the fire and taken up her needle-work, bashfully averting her eyes from that of her cousin's. Her childhood memories of Lady Rosaline were few and far between, therefore she was as good as a stranger to her; though the remembrances on her ladyship's side were much fonder, as she recalled nursing little Georgy when poor Lady Anne was too ill to, and when that lady's death had eventually occurred, making such an endeavor impossible. So while Georgiana was nervous and self-conscious around Rosaline, Rosaline looked upon her with tender eyes, and wished very much to form an intimacy of a different kind than that of nurse and infant; though their mutual reserve made this a much more difficult task than it ought to have been, for they were not so much unlike as they thought themselves to be.

They sat for some minutes in silence, with the consciousness of being the object of Rosaline's glances making Georgiana all the more nervous; the subsequent reaction to this was that she managed to drop her sewing-needle altogether. It had only fallen a little away from her, and she was fully prepared to fetch it herself; but Rosaline was too quick for her, and was in a few moments handing her the dropt needle.

"Thank you," said Georgiana quietly, her eyes still fixed on her work, and her head turned down so that her eyes were hardly visible through the dark curls that hung loosely in front of them. Rosaline smiled warmly; and, her courage mounting from the two simple words spoken by her companion, replied:

"You are quite welcome. Should you allow me to look at your work? I could make much better use of myself in assisting you, than by being idle."

Georgiana, though not with the expectation of composure of mind from this strange cousin's assistance, was nonetheless too polite and gentle-mannered to refuse her; and so was the beginning of familiarity between the cousins. Working together had the natural effect of producing some conversation pertaining to it, which eventually broadened itself into other subjects; and by the end of the period in which the two ladies spent in that room, each felt much more at ease around the other than she had expected.

While these acquaintances were being strengthened, Edith had weighing on her mind a very different topic; that is, there was the temptation of a re-trimmed bonnet and a new pearl-grey silk dress that Mrs. Edwin offered as a reward for her to divulge the details of Miss Hawkins' visit. She was deliberating on this point, in fact, and shamelessly neglecting her studies, when Mrs. Edwin herself entered the room, under the pretense of offering her young mistress another cup of tea; but her ulterior motive became easily known when, after a brief pause in their discourse, the housekeeper thus accosted Edith:

"My dear Edith, have you at last decided to be a good girl, in exchange for my labor?"

Edith smiled prettily, perfectly comprehending what Mrs. Edwin's meaning was, for it had been the subject she had been likewise contemplating.

"Indeed, Mrs. Edwin, I hope I am always good. But it has been a source of endless vexation to me, that your labors should entail only a re-trimmed bonnet and that grey silk frock; for dear Miss Bennet recommended to me the other day, that I buy the gold ribbon for sale in Reynolds' shop, for it would become me very well. I should have purchased it directly, only Simon had already bought me a trinket, and it would be very shameful for me to ask for anything more."

Here Edith paused in her speech, to study her recipient's reaction; and finding that Mrs. Edwin's features had not hardened to the stony indifference which suggested an unbreakable obstinacy on that lady's part, continued on with her satisfaction reflecting in her good-humored tone.

"Of course, Mrs. Edwin, you cannot suppose that I buy everything that my friends suggest; but Miss Bennet is all the more dear to me now, for she has so sadly uprooted herself from Derbyshire, for nobody knows how long; and so how does one pay tribute to an absent friend, but by taking their advice to heart?"

Edith had not expected to move the old housekeeper by this speech; for it was rather to the purpose of allowing the curious servant time to reflect; this reflection hopefully causing her to warm to the idea of buying some pretty ribbon for Edith; and it also gave Edith the satisfaction of knowing she could have words flow from her tongue so rapidly, and form such eloquent sentences and persuasive speeches as to be quite impressive for a girl of her age. And Mrs. Edwin was duly persuaded, thinking how little trouble it would be to procure some ribbon, and how much she wished to learn what secrets Edith was so reluctant to divulge.

"Dear Edith! How could I possibly say nay to you, when you have shown such proofs of possessing the sensibility which I had previously despaired you of ever being mistress of? I am so pleased you wish to honor your friend who has gone away—this Miss Bennet—and I am sure the gold ribbon can be obtained for you very expeditiously, and all of my other promises fulfilled, if you endeavor to do what is right: and with such proofs of your goodness, dear little Edith, I doubt not that you will do just that."

Though the insinuation of Edith's lack of proper feeling and sensibility would usually have chagrined her, she was so well pleased with Mrs. Edwin's bribe, that no indignation escaped her in her expression or words, and hardly even in her thoughts; and though taking a few moments to recollect the conversation which Mrs. Edwin so much wanted to know of, did not otherwise hesitate to give the following explanation:

"I am so glad that we are of a similar mind, Mrs. Edwin. Now I shall not be sorry to tell you of Miss Hawkins' visit. You will recollect you sent her into the drawing-room; and that is where I met her. When I first walked into the room, I sat down in my favorite chair; and Miss Hawkins looked very pleased indeed. I asked her who she was; and she identified herself as Miss Samantha Hawkins; then asked how she knew me—for I was quite confused. Rather than give a direct answer, she instead asked who my mother is."

"How indelicate!" cried Mrs. Edwin, whose interest was wholly absorbed by this recounting, and who did not think to check herself before interrupting; but with only a slight glare in her direction on Edith's part, the latter continued on with her tale.

"Indeed, _I_ thought it a very strange question; and I told her that I do not know who my mother is at all; and I was more than a little mortified at saying such to an absolute stranger. But Miss Hawkins did not seem surprised; indeed, if anything, she seemed rather disappointed; and then said a very many vague things which I did not even pretend to understand. I demanded that she explain herself, but instead she seemed suddenly eager to go; and only gave me some very queer smiles and winks, and then she left."

Mrs. Edwin thought this a very intriguing encounter; and though it provoked more questions than it answered, was nonetheless happy that she had at last extracted this information from Edith. There were few conjectures that could be made, that were not totally wild or improbable; and since Mrs. Edwin was very conscious of what was ridiculous, did not allow any of these ideas to escape her lips; and instead said, with more gravity than she felt:

"This is very suspicious! I hope that Miss Hawkins was only impertinently curious, and intends no real harm; and I think that is the most likely circumstance; but even so, it would be wise, Miss Edith, if you were to keep away from her at all costs, if you should ever happen to see her again accidentally. At any rate, she is not worth trifling with."

Edith could raise no objection to this, since she had received no favorable impression from the mysterious Miss Hawkins in her only meeting with her; and as her curiosity was not near so much as active or voracious as Mrs. Edwin's, she could have no desire in wanting to further question that lady as to her motives.

----

Catherine's feelings, upon her return to familiar Longbourn after an appropriate days' travel, were mostly those of boredom and disappointment. She could not be satisfied in being secluded from her new acquaintances she had formed in Derbyshire, and found her father's modest estate nothing in comparison to Pemberley. How was she to be content, knowing that while her sister resided in one of the finest homes in England, she was to be bored in Longbourn! Of course, she was at leisure to visit her eldest sister at Netherfield, as Catherine could accompany her mother at any time; for Mrs. Bennet thought it prudent to visit poor Jane nearly every day; but even the grandeur of Netherfield, the good humor of Mr. Bingley, and the never-abating sweetness of Jane, could not satisfy Catherine's appetite for variety, grandeur, and all of the pretensions and graces surrounding it.

"O Mary, how I wish for anything to do!" sighed Catherine when the Bennets were still lately returned from their Christmas visit to Elizabeth. She then proceeded to drape herself on the sofa, fatigued from an empty mind.

"I would never want for anything to do," observed Mary curtly, as she had been interrupted while reading a most interesting passage, "with the knowledge that my papa has a library full of books, and that I have hardly read any of them."

"Books! Nobody can live through books. They are only fantasies of the writer; they can be nothing to experiencing the events portrayed in them; and then when one finishes a particularly thrilling one, all that is left is the consciousness of a day spent in solitude; and in contrast of the adventures of a heroine in comparison with one's dull or non-existent ones, it only proves to make things feel blander."

"Nay, Kitty," snapped Mary, upset with her sister's ignorance; "you speak of novels, whereas I speak of books. Novels are indeed only flights of fancy, and cannot strengthen anybody's mind any more than listening to gossip can; but books can teach you that which the most polished minds have discovered, and recount things which indeed truly happened; and I can derive infinite satisfaction from _that_."

Catherine, though acknowledging to herself that she had thought of novels rather than books in general, nevertheless felt that her point had been lost; but, feeling too tired to quarrel with her sister, instead yawned violently and declared her intention of going to bed early. This was also to the equal satisfaction of Mary, who watched her sister rise and leave the room with a triumphant feeling in her bosom.

----

It was with regret that Rosaline parted from the house which she had grown more re-attached to than she had realized, what with every scene of Pemberley recalling some tender recollection to her mind; and though there were some things which she would be glad to not be in daily observance of, she still found the harder memories worth enduring in order to be in company of the warmer ones. But still she must go; and her consolation for it was the assurance of her being as welcome as ever come Eastertide; and _that _visit, her cousin told her, he hoped would be of greater duration.

So the inhabitants at Pemberley, servants aside, had once again dwindled to three. Georgiana, though feeling some friendliness towards Rosaline, was not sorry to have time to get better acquainted with her new sister; and neither Elizabeth nor Darcy could complain, for each was certain to be content as long as they were in the company of the other.

It had been a few weeks since the departure of the final Christmas guest; and Elizabeth had just sealed a letter to her sister Jane, which was filled with many solicitous applications as to her health, and a summary of the succession of busy nothings with which her life was principally filled. With that happy task completed, she moved on to reading a letter of her mother's, which was long and rambling, and truly in Mrs. Bennet's style.

Elizabeth had just begun the last paragraph, when the sound of an opening door interrupted her concentration; and looking over the sheets of paper she held in her hand, saw that her husband had just entered the room, and was in the process of taking the chair next to her.

"Indeed, sir; what could possibly be so pressing so as to make it necessary to interrupt my own pressing matters?" said Elizabeth with affected gravity.

"And what are these 'pressing matters'?"

"A letter from my mamma," answered she, setting the sheets which consisted of the described letter on her writing-desk. "I will have you know that the Lucases had an especially inferior dinner party three days ago; and that is no trifle. I am sure mamma expects me to reprimand them most harshly."

"At least, that is _all_ she wishes you to do," returned Darcy, bearing in mind the thousand little instructions that Mrs. Bennet usually included in her letters.

"Oh no; I hope she has more sense than to write a letter if only to say _that_. She wants my sister Kitty to stay with us in the spring."

"Mrs. Bennet's manners never fail to amaze me."

Elizabeth gently hit her husband on the arm with the letter she had now re-collected in her hand, but smiled at his remark nonetheless.

"You do not do her justice; or, rather, _I _do not. She did not expressly request it; but it was hinted so very strongly, that I know that if we do not extend an invitation to Kitty, mamma will be sorely disappointed."

"I confess, that I am not as well-acquainted with your mother's ways and habits as you are."

"Then it is a lucky thing you have me to decipher them for you. Though I should have thought you more apt at the art, considering that you must have at least _one_ relation who is similar in _that_ respect."

Darcy did not need to confirm his wife's insinuation, so instead said:

"But if I did not have you, I should not need to dissect Mrs. Bennet's mind in the first place. But with such a point in mind, I wonder how you can abuse _my_ relations so cruelly!"

"Do I? I hope I don't abuse anybody, unless that abuse is deserved."

"Of all of the qualities of your character, my dear, I never knew that 'abusive' was one of them. How ever could I have made such a mistake as to marry one of _your_ lot?"

"Oh; the answer to _that_ is very simple. It is alluded to in the old lines:

"_Love me not for comely grace, _  
_For my pleasing eye and face; _  
_No, nor for my constant heart, - _  
_For these may change, and turn to ill, _  
_And thus true love may sever. _  
_But love me on, and know not why, _  
_So hast thou the same reason still _  
_To dote upon me ever._" _(1.)_

Darcy laughed at Elizabeth's poetry recital, and promised her that he would bear in mind those lines, if she should ever doubt as to why he ought to continue loving her.

----

_1.) This poem is by John Wilbye (1574-1638), but it's more of an homage to "Wives and Daughters" (by Elizabeth Gaskell, 1866), since the poem is quoted there in almost exactly the same way._


	12. What Is Wished, and What Is

**Chapter Eleven: What Is Wished, and What Is**

_Oft have I vowed how dearly I did love thee,_  
_And oft observed thee with all willing duty,_  
_Sighs have I sent, still hoping to remove thee,_  
_Millions of tears I tendered to thy beauty._

—_J. Wilbye, "Oft have I vowed…"_

Rosaline gazed out the windowpane at the grey landscape that was London; its dull and colorless lanes merging with the sky which was laden with thick, dark clouds. An unenthusiastic rain tapped on the glass, sliding in slender streams down the surface, and collecting in a tiny pool on the ledge beneath. Reflected in this streaked window were Rosaline's features, her complexion mimicking the bleak colors of her surroundings; and her soft pale lip, which trembled slightly, provided the only contrast to the melancholy scene before her. Little enjoyment could she derive being in such a place, when she longed for the seclusion of the country; stealing through the heath of the Yorkshire moors—or, as she thought with pain, rambling through the majestic peaks of Derbyshire. What a fate it was! There was certainly nothing deficient in her brother Peter's manners, as he had always been quite the gentleman; nor was there anything contemptible in his wife, if good-breeding and elegance is all that is required to make a person agreeable. Smart parties and handsome young men, with considerable fortunes or titles (and some with both), were not wanting; yet this was not what she wanted.

Little had she realized, when she had gone to the Continent, that so much could and had changed! Those whom she had counted on being as they always were, had changed; and, in _her_ perception of their character, had betrayed that in a most unexplainable way. Yet _she_ was always what she ever was; and so painful was it, to have weighing upon her the knowledge that she suited the friends of her past, but not those of the present!

She had piled next to her several large stacks of correspondence; and, hastily opening one which she had been previously poring over, reread its words; and though upon her first perusal of it, she had embellished it in order to please her, and saw that which she was familiar with, and wanted to see. But now, with her superior information, she saw how much she had corrupted its words, and discovered meanings where there were none; and the only thing that she saw was in her power to do, was mourn over her former judgment, and wish that she had taken a more active role in the lives of those whom she cared most about.

"Why must I always be silent, when I most wish to speak!" thought she privately; "I see that it has only served to make me so little understood; and I regret it; yet how can I change my very nature? How is one to become outspoken, when she is so familiar with silence?—but even if I were to force myself to exertion! It is all too late for that now; and if I _were_ to do such a thing, I should have done it many years ago. I must continue down the road of solitude and silence, for that is the only one I have ever known; and at least I can have satisfaction in my constancy—not merely in keeping true to my character, I know, and cannot deny _that_ other instance—even if I shall never reap its rewards. How foolish I have acted; or rather, in my lack thereof!"

This contemplation was not very much to Rosaline's satisfaction, and yet she could not deny its being true; and so, she refolded her letter, which had become flimsy and bent from being so frequently handled, as she put it down; glancing instead to a correspondence of a different kind, which made her folly seem so much worse, than she had considered it only a minute before. How dangerous it was, for her to be going again to Derbyshire; and for more reasons than one! Yet she reminded herself she could not withdraw her consent; and in her heart, glad that she could not; though her sense and her conscience rose up against it, and vainly tried to muffle these palpitations.

"Wretched, wretched fool I have been!" was her conclusion to these conflicting sentiments; though the words did not seem nearly as strong, nor did this conviction seem nearly reproach enough, as the crime warranted.

"Rosaline, my dear sister!" cried Lady Fitzwilliam, who had just entered the room; "I am going to call on the Danielsons, for they called yesterday, as you well know. Should you like to accompany me?—I do recommend it, for they are such a good-mannered family, and I believe much pleased with you, as every sensible person ought to be."

Rosaline could not hide a look of disinclination; for she would much rather be alone, than making herself agreeable to near-strangers, whom she had no reason to wish to further her acquaintance with. She was sensible that her sister-in-law spoke to her, in an attempt to be kind and encouraging; and indeed, she _was_ grateful for that; but at the same time, disliked being in company much, and would have given anything at that moment to be in Derbyshire _then_, in spite of all that she had just told herself.

"We shall not stay long; not above a quarter of an hour, I assure you; and of course, we shall take the carriage," added Lady Fitzwilliam in a consolatory tone, and with a glance out the window; and with such gentle entreaties, Rosaline could not very well decline the suggestion.

----

"Well, girls; you shall hear what your sister Lizzy has to say," said Mrs. Bennet one morning at breakfast, as it was her custom to read her letters—at least, those letters which she deemed important—at the breakfast-table. Catherine and Mary looked up from their plates of food, neither with the expectation of hearing anything to their advantage; for Mrs. Bennet had not the best judgment in determining what would interest her daughters, and usually read long paragraphs pertaining to circumstances that neither had any previous information of; and in which previous information was fundamental to understanding, or caring about, the circumstance described.

Mrs. Bennet hesitated, apparently waiting for some encouragement to begin; and it was Catherine who uttered, "Well, mamma, what has she to say?" which finally motivated her to begin relating what Elizabeth had written, in the most animated tone.

"The most delightful thing, Kitty—I am sure I cannot conceive anything better. And it is all for _your_ sakes, my dears; nothing pleases me better than that which benefits my daughters."

Mr. Bennet silently said to himself that such was very true, if a 'benefit' was something which pertained to the matrimonial success of said daughters. So he fully prepared himself to hear of some eligible bachelor (though he hoped that marriage had not made his Lizzy silly and an eager matchmaker, as it had done to her mother) or a ball, or one of the other common subjects which made ladies energetic.

"She says," continued Mrs. Bennet, all the while glancing at the paragraph containing the happy information she was to relate; and while Kitty looked in suspense, and Mary looked apathetic: "that her two sisters, Mary and Kitty, are very much welcome to stay at Pemberley whenever they choose; and she recommends your both staying with her for a great while, this April—and has already some notion of how to convey you both there!"

This was not as surprising an invitation as it ought to have been, for Mrs. Bennet had frequently remarked and hinted to her family, that Mary and Catherine _ought_ to be invited to Pemberley; that it was only a proper mark of affection from Elizabeth to her younger sisters, and that she had no doubt that it _would_ happen; and so, when Mrs. Bennet paused to observe the reactions of the recipients of her information, was a bit disappointed in the lack of warmth in their features. Of them all, though, Catherine looked the most animated; for though she too had heard of Mrs. Bennet's expectations, she had never allowed herself to hope, except as a secret in her heart, for their really being invited; but now that it was so, she was so glad of it. What more could she want, than to go to Pemberley! During her absence from it, her fancy had had plenty of time to romanticize it, and make it seem the very picture of happiness and pleasure; and so dear to her was little Edith! And her suite there, had been everything she had ever wanted, and so exactly to her liking! And so a smile was spread across her face, and her foot already tapping with impatience to be gone.

"Well, my dear, it seems I have married a prophet after all," said Mr. Bennet dryly, who then turned his attention back to his newspaper, holding it before his face as the pages rattled slightly, deciding it would be best to let the feminine members of his family rejoice without his interruption.

"Oh, Mr. Bennet!" returned his wife, only half-reproachfully, for it was hard to be at all angry when such schemes of felicity were before her, in the form of her second daughter's letter; and then, turning to Mary and Catherine: "And so I shall write Lizzy immediately, and hope to set a date for when you shall go; and such a happy time you both will have! To be sure, I saw many a smart young man, when I traveled through the pretty quaint town that is Lambton. So good it is of Lizzy to invite you both!—but you know, I never doubted that she would. La! What a happy day this is, for my dear girls! And we owe it all to our good Lizzy!"

Catherine returned all of the compliments which had been bestowed upon Elizabeth, and with equal alacrity; articulating that she could not conceive anything better than going to Pemberley in April, and really feeling that it was so.

"And, of course, Lizzy will have to have many balls; for did you see the ballroom at Pemberley? Oh, so grand, my dear, and certainly will hold twice as many couples, as the meager assembly room in Meryton."

"Oh, mamma, do you really think so? I should very much like to go to a ball!" cried Catherine, her pleasure even more increased by such a happy thought, as a ball at Pemberley.

"I have not a doubt in the world of it."

And so mother and daughter continued to entertain themselves in this manner, elaborating on each other's ideas of what their dear Lizzy might do to increase Catherine's pleasure when she went to her; and all the while Mary sat quietly and disconsolately, her sentiments far from that of her mother's and sister's. She could have few scruples in upsetting their raptures, for she considered their raptures very misplaced. How dancing and flirting could inspire more emotion than philosophy and good literature, she could only account for in that her mamma and Kitty had minds so much inferior to her own. So at the first eligible opportunity, Mary said:

"_You_ may go and giggle and admire people's finery, Kitty; but do not expect _me_ to engage myself likewise. If that is all I am to expect in Derbyshire, then I had much rather stay home, and employ myself sensibly."

Before Catherine could reply, as this speech was chiefly addressed to her, Mrs. Bennet had already come up with the following reprimand:

"Mary! How ungrateful of you, to not wish to honor your sister's invitation. It is the most shocking thing, indeed! And you must get a little society, my dear; indeed, you must. I am sure that when you think on it a little more, you will not dream of declining it. I will not have any of _my_ daughters take up the shameful occupation of a spinster; and some young man, dear, will find your charms even superior to your sisters; and that shall no doubt be the one you marry."

This speech had not the desired effect on Mary, who instead felt all the sting which her mother's latter mark implied; that it would be most incredible for any man to prefer her over her sisters, and that _if_ such a man is existence, she had better get him quickly, for she shall have very few opportunities otherwise! Such was Mary's translation, at least; and so her indignation was yet further heightened, and it increased her hatred of going with her sister to Derbyshire. Mr. Bennet, however, had overheard this conversation, despite his best attempts to block it out; so, he lowered his newspaper which he had formerly held up as firmly as if it were a shield, and thus addressed Mary:

"Remember, Mary, that Pemberley boasts one of the finest libraries in the country; so I am sure that you shall be able to do something perfectly sensible, while Kitty runs off and giggles and establishes herself as being the silliest girl in England, which _I_ have already discovered for myself."

This reminder did pacify Mary; and she thought with satisfaction that Pemberley _would_ be a more suitable place to improve herself than Longbourn; recalled that the pianoforte in one of its parlors was especially grand, and that Miss Darcy had very good taste in music. However, it also mortified Catherine, by her father's conviction that she was the silliest girl in England; and so she was rightly insulted, and might have allowed the tears which were rising to her eyes to fall down her cheek, had she not the lucky recollection of all of the happiness which she was to be mistress of in the near future to subdue her.

So, with a little further conversation, it was fixed upon that both of the unmarried Bennet sisters would go and visit Mrs. Darcy that spring; and this was much to the satisfaction of all; for Catherine had already lost herself in a reverie of the fantastic scenarios which she was to live out, and Mary was attempting to recall the name of some of the titles in Pemberley's library which she had thought interesting. Mrs. Bennet's only disappointment could be that _she _was not invited herself; and Mr. Bennet, if he could be disappointed with the tranquility which having two ladies less in the house would undoubtedly provide, was probably disappointed for the same reason as his wife.

----

Mrs. Edwin, though being merely a servant, did pride herself in many of her qualities, which she considered superior. She had not a tolerance for slang, dialect, and other such things that could be deemed to butcher the English language; and she fancied that she had a very discerning eye, a great deal of sense, and no coarseness about her. With these ideas well fixed in her mind, it may be easily supposed, that she had never considered excessive curiosity, or the bribery of her young mistress, coarse or otherwise inelegant. But she must not be solely blamed for her deficiencies of character; for, she had been often in the company of those with inferior minds to hers, which had had a great hand in establishing her sense of conceit and superiority; and, though she despised those with such habits as she could not warrant perfectly proper, she nonetheless (however subconsciously) suffered from their influence.

So when Mrs. Edwin had been satisfied by Edith, the details of her discourse with the strange Miss Hawkins, she felt nothing the matter in having taken the measures she did not extract this information, and had no intention of informing anybody else of what she had learnt.

However, let it not be thought that all women in her class had the same principles. It was the fair Alice, who had found Mrs. Edwin's altered behavior to Edith, very peculiar indeed; and had always kept one ear open, as she went about her duties, in hopes of accounting for it. And Alice had been walking down the hall, with the laundry in hand, when Mrs. Edwin had entered the sitting-room for her interview with Edith; and Alice, with an irresistible curiosity to know what dealings the two had together, instantly dropped the laundry, and peered through the crack in the door, using all of her powers of hearing and observation to concentrate on what was taking place through the wall which divided her from the objects of her wonder.

What Edith had told Mrs. Edwin, and what Mrs. Edwin had learned, neither supposed had been overheard by a third person; but so it was; and Alice could not have wished for anything more interesting, for her to have chosen to have eavesdropped upon. So when Mrs. Edwin was approaching the door, Alice quickly but quietly picked up her basket of laundry, and scurried out of the room before Mrs. Edwin had ever seen her.

Alice's conjectures as to Miss Hawkins' motives were probably no wilder than Mrs. Edwin's; but the difference lay in, the amount of discretion each had in voicing those conjectures.


	13. A Letter or Two

**Chapter Twelve: A Letter or Two**

_The post office has a great charm at one point of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for._

—_J. Austen_

Mrs. Bennet was never one to allow a plan to fall through, once it had been fixed on; and the plan for her two daughters to visit Mrs. Darcy was no exception. She wrote her response to the latter's letter, with such fluidity and ease as was not her wont, for letter-writing was usually more of an obligation than a pleasure with her; and a date was fixed on, which was satisfactory to all. Upon Elizabeth's recollection that Lady Rosaline was to visit at Easter, it became very natural for she and her sisters to arrive at about the same time; and so a party, though of a size considerably smaller than that which was gathered at Christmas, would be made up for a while.

Once these arrangements had been made, Catherine spent many weeks in wretched suspense for their fulfillment. Her only consolation was her correspondence with Edith, which Catherine fancied as more flourishing than it was, for Edith had not quite mastered writing—her sentences were awkward, and her script had not the typical elegance and neatness of an accomplished lady's hand; and such deficiencies prevented her writing as regularly as her correspondent wished, for she could not derive much pleasure from the task. Mary, being of a more sedate temper, and being more capable of amusing herself, than her sister, was considerably less apprehensive; but still, she looked forward to continuing her acquaintance with the library, if not the people, of Pemberley.

It was several weeks before this desired event, that Simon Mulligan, who had been previously enjoying tranquility of mind since the end of Christmastide, received a letter which excited his interest. It was intriguing from the first, as he did not recognize its writer's hand; and, pushing aside the other notes, letters of business, etc., which he had received with that day's post, tore open the mysterious seal of this letter, and read the following epistle:

_20th January, 18—_

_Dear Sir,_

_Though you may regard my request as impertinent, do not suppose that I have not the expectation of such. If I could, I would inquire into the particulars of Miss Edith's parentage, as I believe the referred to young lady is under your guardianship. I have no claim on your confidence, but very interesting letters of correspondence before me, which suggests more than I am willing to believe without confirmation. What might be done with such evidence, I am certain is already blatantly clear to you; therefore, if you wish maintain the status of your well-guarded secret as such, I strongly recommend that you enlighten me as to the whole of your knowledge about your young charge._

There was then listed an address to which his response could be sent, preceded by a pair of initials which Simon was certain was merely the invention of the writer. The letter was not signed; and so, with the color now drained from his face, Simon was left only to his own unhelpful contemplations and conjectures. Once he had finished reading the letter, with only the margin to fix his eyes upon, he instantly threw the letter aside with more violence than was very practical; and, with his mind too full for thinking, he paced back and forth through his library, alternately running his fingers through his tousled flaxen curls, and covering his blanched face with his hands. Hot, girlish tears eventually streamed down his cheek; but soon, he instead of continuing to indulge in such a useless outlet, he choked them back between his irregular breaths, and then managed to clamber back into the chair placed before his handsome mahogany desk.

With a newfound ability for exertion, and the palpitations of his heart becoming more subdued, he took the strange letter back up into his hand, and re-examined it with a discerning eye. When, his eyes fixed on the top of the paper, he saw the date, it suddenly struck him as very strange that it was dated the twentieth of January, when it was at present well into March; why his antagonist would wait so long to post the letter after it had been written, seemed very odd indeed. And then, though he could find no hidden meaning in the words themselves, for they spoke very plainly to him, there was in the script peculiarities he had not been at leisure to notice in his first reading. The writer clearly did not compose his epistle with ease, for there was a multitude of careless smudges, and the handwriting itself lacking the smooth undulating appearance that characterized that of a confident writer. In fact, some words were nearly ineligible; and Simon wondered that he had not had more trouble with comprehending it; though he supposed his frenzied mind had given clarity to the scrawled, smudged script, when a soberer reader might have been stupefied by it. He concluded, therefore, that the writer must not have written with ease and confidence; that he had had some reason to falter; which did not become such an excellent rascal as his words suggested, but rather gave the appearance that it had been nearly written against that unknown person's will.

But what mortifying convictions followed! Whether its author was easy about it or not, here was the letter before him, and here were its directions! Could he ignore such despicable blackmail?—indeed, it seemed the easiest thing to do; he could burn it, and later protest he had never received any such thing; and what did he owe to whom the other half of the correspondence alluded to concerned! That person may go to the deuce, as much as he cared! With an agitated sigh he gazed into the flames of the hearth-fire, his fingers itching to dispose of that which gave him such displeasure; but soon reason persuaded him otherwise. Even if he was not to blame (and really, wasn't he in part?), he would still be tied to the scandal; and with gossip and careless tongues, no doubt the tale would be made something much more fantastic than it actually was.

But what else was he to do! To submit to his adversary's requests, seemed the most abominable thing; his pride, his conscience—everything within him revolted against it. And what of poor Edith?—there was no promise contained within the letter, which said _she_ would not be harmed, nor one which stated Simon's good information would not be revealed if he were to disclose it.

"But," thought he, "it was implied." And to what advantage would not responding have? It would eliminate any trace of a doubt, of the information not being made public. And that which he had tried to conceal for so long! He felt that he would once more be insensible with rage. Never had he heard a whisper of it from any other person; not till _her_ indiscretion, undoubtedly excited some curiosity; and from there, who could tell by what means the contemptible stranger obtained the letters which he claimed to possess! Simon had never supposed _her_ to be discreet; indeed, proof against _that_ was very evident in her conduct; but what could possibly motivate her to have come thither! There was simply no rational explanation for it; and he could not readily believe she wished to expose herself.

Simon knew not how much time he spent shut up in his library, with thoughts which constantly contradicted themselves coursing through his mind; deliberating over what ought to be done; what was the right thing to do. At length, he came to the sad conclusion that his correspondent must be obliged; and that, if that person kept to themselves, it would only be _one_ person who was privy to the terrible truth, instead of all of England gossiping about it. He did not delay composing his response, which, though he tried to make it as brief as possible, for the sake of giving relief to his agitated feelings, and a wish of not acquainting his recipient with cumbersome details, took a considerable period of time; and when the final stroke of his pen marked its completion, he looked very much relieved, and was very glad to put that wretched writing utensil out of his sight.

He was reading over his composition, with a discernible grimace etched into his features, though he found nothing unsatisfactory in his writing itself, but rather what the writing communicated; and so when he was called for dinner, he started up very suddenly, astonished that he had been shut up in his office all day; then glancing out the western window, which, by his observation of the sun ray's filtering through it and falling on the various objects in the room, only confirmed that that much time had passed. So he placed his letter face-down on the desk, and hurried to the dinner-table.

"Are you ill, Simon?" was the greeting which he received from Edith as he sat down. Though he was considerably calmer than upon his first perusal of unwelcome intelligence, he was still considerably altered; his fingers trembled when he picked up his fork, and his pallid lip and cheek was not his usual appearance; and then there was that his brow was frequently knitted in frustration, when he was not exerting himself to appear unaffected. And then there was that Edith had not seen him all day; so her presumption was a very reasonable one.

"Only a little," he said quietly, averting his eyes from her; which was not entirely a lie, though he by no means planned to make his poor girl his confidant, and therefore said nothing further on the subject. Edith was satisfied that this was the whole truth, though she was still sorry that Simon was not well, and her countenance reflected it; and she tried a few times to bring up some indifferent subject, in hopes of cheering his spirits; but each attempt was only repelled by her companion; and so dinner passed by in relative silence.

After Simon's interruption, he hastened back to his office, where he took up his letter, and finished his proofreading of it; and though several things caught his eye which he might have otherwise taken the time to repair in a second draft, such as a sentence he could have worded better, or a word in which two letters had been transposed, he was too much vexed to make any corrections. So he quickly sealed the letter, that he might not have to look at it any longer, and ended the day with many unhappy reflections which kept him awake well into the night, though he was exhausted beyond anything.

----

But it was a while later when Rosaline was making preparations for her visit to Derbyshire. She was in a fever of anticipation, as she dashed hither and thither, unable to fix herself in one of the handsome parlors in her brothers' townhouse for long, before feeling restless. What activities she could participate in, were no doubt no more interesting than those which occupied her time in town; indeed, the activities there would probably be actually fewer. But still, Rosaline would be glad to be free of the smoky air, and the dirty streets; would be glad of wandering the countryside, and spending hours at a time without crossing paths with another soul. And then, there was once more looking upon the faces she had seen a thousand times in her reveries and dreams, but had not seen in the flesh for what was too long!

"I shall spoil myself," she thought, with a light heart; "I was separated for so many years, and now I cannot bear a few months: shame on me!" Her earnest, penitent contemplations she would save for another day; to-day she was determined to be pleased with everything, and think not of what she had lost (or rather, what she had never had), but what she could still gain. It was true, that her folly and weakness had led her astray; but she was by no means _ruined_; and though many opportunities, large and small, she had lost through it, she had not lost everything. Indeed, she still led a rather favored life, and as these merry thoughts tumbled through her head, she wondered how she had been so melancholy before.

She had just climbed the stairs with unusual alacrity, and entered her chambers with a shimmer in her eye which she had been long devoid of; smiled upon the honey-colored room into which she entered, with the windows thrown open to allow in a warm spring breeze; for it was an exceeding good day. La!—how could anybody have any misfortunes, when nature bestowed such kindness upon her, and when the prospect of being at the one place she loved best drew so near? Not even Kitty Bennet could have been as happy as her, at that moment.

Rosaline's trunks had been packed, and were closed and leaning against the wainscoting near the doorway; and Rosaline, her eye quickly scanning the room, so as to ascertain that nothing had been left behind. The servants seemed to have done a very thorough job; but as Rosaline was always very careful to be sure that she never left anything behind (since she knew that if _some _things were left behind, she would live to very deeply regret it later), she took her trunks and began to scour through them. She was cheerful enough that she did so very willingly, and derived much more pleasure from it than she normally did. As she examined the last one—yes, everything was packed neatly—everything in order. She lounged back in satisfaction, a smile smoothed across her features.

And then: a recollection.

Rosaline started as it came upon her. And it would be the very possession which she so wished to keep hidden! Oh, could she have overlooked it? She silently prayed that she had as she frantically researched her trunks: no, her first search had been quite thorough, as she had done it in so leisurely a manner. But then! What if it had not been packed at all; it was easy to suppose that a servant had mistaken it for one of Peter's things. She went to where it had sat very peacefully hitherto; but no, it was gone: but gone where? Locked, unattractive, uninviting! Who would want for such a thing?—but could she be sure it was theft?

With the frantic beatings of her heart preventing her from finding a more comfortable resting place, Rosaline threw herself on the window-seat and wept from frustration, fear, and the vivid contrast of her present sufferings with her silly glee of former hours.

----

Elizabeth, having rummaged through the post-bag herself instead of waiting for her husband to hand her letters to her, extracted those addressed to her from the mass. This was one of the daily rituals of Pemberley; and it was a very informal affair, as its three principal occupants languidly laid on whatever piece of furniture suited their whims best, busying themselves with letter reading, letter writing, etc. They didn't acknowledge each other a great deal during this period; Georgiana especially keeping to herself; for, though she was becoming gradually more open with her sister-in-law, and as affectionate as always towards her brother, she always felt especially awkward when it was the three of them together, and with no other person to break up her unease.

So this morning was not out of the ordinary. Georgiana sat with her chin cradled in her knees, which she had drawn up to them, as she held a letter before her soft hazel eyes. They were all in some parts anticipating and dreading the arrival of Catherine and Mary Bennet, which was now imminent; within the week they would be coming: Elizabeth was assured of such by the happy exultations in her mother from the letters she sent her. And then there was, of course, also Lady Rosaline to expect; and Elizabeth had no reason to regret this addition any more than her sisters; for, though she had no particular fondness for the lady herself, she was pleased at how well her husband enjoyed her company, and that was recommendation enough for her. There was also that her ladyship had always behaved to her with the utmost civility, and was never obtrusive; certainly not the most colorful character, in her opinion; but sometimes a little blandness is preferable in a house-guest.

Derbyshire had not exactly the most desirable temperature in April, so a warm fire was burning in the hearth, with the three Darcys all settled around it; Georgiana in an arm-chair facing the east wall, so that when the sun gleamed through that set of windows, it illuminated her pretty features very well. And then Darcy and Elizabeth sat across from her, with the post strewn about on the table betwixt them all.

Anyway—as Elizabeth was browsing through her letters, she spied one which caught her particular interest, as she instantly recognized the handwriting to be that of her sister Lydia's. She had not heard from her for a few months, the last letter more worthy of the term 'note' than letter, which contained a very straightforward application for funds to pay off some debts that she and her husband had accumulated, along with the inelegant declaration that she had a "sprained ankle". Elizabeth had grimaced at her sister's want of propriety, and in reply sent an equally candid refusal; but as she unfolded the several sheets of paper which this present letter was comprised of, she could hardly believe its extraordinary length.

She first scanned it, catching words and phrases which piqued her interest; then, poring over it carefully, gradually becoming totally engrossed and disturbed by its contents, with her eyes glued to the page as she reached its end; and, shoving the letter in her husband's hand, did not have to give any sort of explanation as to why she wanted it read by him, as he understood her sentiments perfectly well as they were reflected in her perturbed expression.


End file.
